The erratic hot water at the house in the desert meant Charlie had often showered with Harry. The Kuchler Motel’s never-ending supply was one of its best features, but if Charlie lingered too long an imaginary Harry would join her and the feels would leave her slumped in the shower tray, sobbing hopelessly.

That time Harry put one of my waxing strips on his chest and yelped so much he fell off the bed …

Charlie almost jumped out of the shower, knowing fond thoughts of Harry led nowhere but pain.

Keep busy.

After drying on the least grungy towel and dressing in her least grungy leggings and last clean T-shirt, Charlie grabbed the laundry basket and started gathering towels and dirty clothes scattered across the bathroom.

The basket was stuffed before she got to the clothes spread around the beds, but Charlie was on a laundry mission, so she grabbed a trash-can liner from the cupboard under the sink and began filling up with Patrick’s Spider-Man underpants and Ed’s aromatic socks.

After waddling down two flights with laundry in each hand, Charlie crossed the parking lot to the motel’s other building and stepped through a basic UV quarantine gate into a laundry room.

One of the three dryers was rumbling and a chunky guy sat in the only plastic bucket chair that wasn’t cracked at the back. He was average height, thirties, with a stocky build and a dark-brown shirt with R&M Haulage embroidered on the pocket.

‘Hey, Charlie,’ he said, peering over a comic book.

His beard had grown and he was dressed for winter, so Charlie took a second to mark him as a guy who’d hit on her when she’d taken Patrick for a pre-bedtime splash in the motel pool, back when it was still hot.

‘Alex?’ Charlie ventured.

‘Rex,’ he corrected as Charlie raised the metal lid on a washer and started dropping stuff in.

The easy smile reminded her that Rex had a one-one-seven, the socially acceptable zombie mod that kept you functioning while life floated happily by.

People with one-one-sevens tended to make good employees in mundane, non-creative jobs, though their optimistic bias gave them a poor sense of danger and their relentless smiles and trite observations made them a goldmine for stand-up comedians.

‘I heard it might snow for Christmas.’

‘Uh-huh,’ Charlie said as she sprinkled powder on top of her first load, then opened another machine to take her whites.

‘Here for Christmas, or off to visit family?’ Rex asked.

‘No place to go,’ Charlie sighed, not wanting this banal conversation, but not ready to face her own company back in the suite. ‘You?’

‘Working,’ Rex said. ‘I was supposed to take a load home to Georgia this morning, but a tire burst on my rig and spares are tough to find.’

‘I heard that,’ Charlie said, nodding as she sat herself on top of the folding bench, swinging her legs.