There was a cigarette machine next to the tourist pamphlets; his gaze was drawn toward it like a compass needle to north. As he was leaving the lobby, he seriously considered buying a pack and lighting up for the first time since quitting almost a year ago. Hadn’t he earned at least that? To stand under the overhang in front of this dump of a motel and smoke half a Pall Mall? Not so grand a request to make of the universe, really. But it would mean having to ask the buckethead for change and, worse, stepping back into that little hotbed of a motel room smelling of smoke. Teresa and the children would pick up on it immediately, and even if, by some miracle, none of them said anything, he would see that look of disappointment on Teresa’s face. He marched into the wind and rain, and by the time he got back to the door of room 28, he was soaked to the skin.

The door was locked. He banged on it.

Frankie’s voice came through the painted plywood. “Who is it?”

“Me.”

“What’s the password?”

The password is open the goddamn door. “It’s Dad,” he said, framing his lips around the designation.

His molars were grinding together when he heard the bolt turn. Frankie opened the door wide and stood next to it with his narrow arm extended, saying, “All rise.”

No one moved. Teresa and Karen had come out of the bathroom and were sitting as far apart as they could, given the space: Teresa was in the corduroy chair near the door and Karen was sitting cross-legged on the Spellbound carpet beyond the far bed. Roy stepped into the room. With the exception of Frankie, they were all watching the television. Some ambitious local reporter was standing in front of Canaveral Pier as the sleeves of his raincoat rippled around his arms. “…  absolutely horrible,” he was yelling into his microphone. “We’ve seen palm trees falling onto houses, downed power lines, and one local policeman just told me they’re hoping everyone has evacuated by now because the roads aren’t safe for travel. This is a real class-A storm.… ”

“We’re getting roll-aways,” Roy said. He shut the door behind him and felt water running down the backs of his knees, inside his trousers. “Two of them.”

“Oh my god,” Teresa said, taking her eyes off the screen to look at him, “you’re drenched.”

“The desk clerk is going to bring them.”

“You’re just asking to catch pneumonia,” she said. She got up, walked to the bathroom, and came back with a thin white towel.

“There’ll be room for everyone to sleep,” Roy continued.

“Do you want to die?” She handed him the towel. “Get out of those wet clothes.”

“I didn’t bring anything else to put on. We’re only staying for the night.” He scratched the towel over his scalp.