When I throw my bag over my shoulder, a part of me thinks Nate will come out and stop me before I leave.

He doesn’t.

Some places are designed for you to look right past them.

This is one of those places. The kind you go to disappear, to be invisible like a flame on a wall.

I stare at the long stretch of building and the weed-choked tarmac surrounding it, a shitty two-story strip of weathered doors masquerading as a motel somewhere in Jersey. The red sign above uneven steps only half blinks in the dark. Ten feet down, an old barefoot man in soiled clothing is asleep in the fetal position on the hard, litter-strewn concrete. I’ve spent nights in these kinds of places before. If you’ve been to one, you’ve been to them all.

As I push into the lobby, the balding man behind the counter looks up from a folded newspaper, and it seems like he’s been here as long as the rug in the corner, and just as hard used.

His gaze flicks over my shoulder, into the parking lot, then he glares at me. “What kind of trouble you in?”

My eyes fall down to my clothes, my shoes. “What makes you think I’m in trouble?”

The man darts his eyes to my overstuffed bag. “Easy to tell when someone’s running.”

My leg bounces. “I need a room,” I say.

My card is already in my hand. I put it on the counter. The man glances down, then back up, his gaze lingering longer this time.

“What’s a beautiful girl like you doing out in a place like this?” he asks, a sudden gleam in his eyes. His smile makes my skin crawl.

I roll my shoulders. “Can I just have a room, please?”

He glances at something on his computer. “Only have one room left. In the basement. Half the price. You want it?”

I don’t have a choice so I nod, tell him that I need the room until Thursday because I only have enough money in my account for three nights. When he’s done with my card, he rakes his eyes over me again, then jerks a drawer open and pulls out a key dangling from a silver chain.

I take it, then head down to the basement level, the violent stench of mildew immediately assaulting me. I quickly secure both locks and slip the chain onto the latch before slumping against the door, feeling a small wave of relief wash over me. But it doesn’t last. The room itself solidifies around me—walls that seem to tilt in and stale smells I know too well: shit, sweat and piss. Just like all the other places I’ve stayed in, it holds a listlessness, a sort of anguish that seems to be ingrained into the plaster, which has multiple fist-size holes in it.