“Fine, we can get some pizza,” I say and walk to the reception area. I give my name at the check-in desk and get the key card for our room. We walk to the elevator and take it up to the third floor.

“Fine, I’ll take it,” she says, and we get out of the elevator and then walk down the well-worn brown carpet. “This is not a four-star,” she mumbles next to me. I want to tell her that it is, but the peeling wallpaper will not help my case.

I insert the card into the reader, and the door unlocks when the light shines green. The smell of stale air fills the room, but when I flip on the light, it’s not as bad as I think we both expected it to be. The two double beds have white blankets on them. I step in, and the bathroom door is to the left. I flip on the light and see that the bathtub is a faded yellow color, and the white shower curtain has seen better days. “I call dibs,” Olivia mumbles as the door slams behind her. She kicks off her sneakers, then slides off her purse and dumps it on the small wooden desk in the corner.

She sits on the bed, and I watch her put her face in her hands. “I hate him.” Looking up at me, she has tears running down her face. “How could he do this to me, to all those people?”

“I don’t know.” I shake my head. “Do you want some wine?” Looking around the room, I wonder if there is a minibar in the hotel room. I spot the fridge in the corner underneath the television stand, and when I open it, the horrible smell makes me gag. “Well, that would be a no,” I say, holding my hand up to my nose to smell my shirt.

“The universe hates me.” Olivia gets up from the bed. “I’m going to take a bath.” She starts walking to the bathroom. “Or maybe not. I have no idea.”

“You go wash,” I say, “and I’m going to get the lay of the land.”

“Your Southern accent is coming out.” Olivia chuckles. “It took you two years to stop saying y’all.”

Shaking my head, I grab the key card I had thrown on the desk and walk out into the hallway. Taking the elevator down to the lobby, I ask the receptionist who checked us in if there is someplace close to buy wine.

“Not at this time of night,” she says. I glance down at my phone and see it’s nine p.m. We are definitely not in New York City anymore.

“Is there anywhere we can get something to eat?” I ask, looking around for any menus that might be lingering around.

“No, the Piggly Wiggly closes at eight during the week.” She smiles at me, and I shake my head.