The next morning I woke to the sound of dishes clanking in the dining room. I checked the clock. It was nearly eight o’clock. I showered, shaved, and dressed, then packed up and went outside my room for breakfast. Dawna walked into the dining room about the same time I did.

“Good morning, sleepyhead. Glad I got up at five-thirty to get breakfast on.”

“I’m sorry. I …”

She waved her hand. “I’m just joshin’ you. I had another guest I had to get breakfast for. What would you like to drink? I’ve got coffee, orange juice, apple juice, milk, all of the above if you like.”

“Coffee and orange juice,” I said.

She walked back to the kitchen while I sat down at the table, which was set with a poinsettia print tablecloth and Christmas place settings trimmed in red and gold with holly leaf decorations. The centerpiece was a glass chimney and candle set in a holly wreath.

A few minutes later Dawna returned to the dining room holding a casserole dish and a silver serving spoon. “My festive breakfast casserole is one of our guests’ favorites,” she said. “It has pork sausage, cheddar, picante sauce, bread, and eggs. It’s delicious.”

“It looks good,” I said.

“It is.” She spooned a large serving of casserole onto my plate, then said, “Oh, I forgot your beverages.”

She went back to the kitchen, returning a minute later with my juice and coffee. She set the drinks down and sat down across the table from me, presumably to watch me eat.

I took a couple of bites, expecting her to say something, but she didn’t. She just sat there watching me, which, frankly, was a little uncomfortable. Finally I asked, “How’s business?”

She sighed. “A little slow but it’s picking up. It’s not tourist season yet. During Sturgis we just rent the whole place out. You know what Sturgis is?”

I nodded. “I had employees who went every year. The stories they would tell …”

“Oh yes, there are stories. Last year there was a woman on a Harley who called herself ‘Lady Godiva.’ I don’t need to tell you what she was wearing. Or not wearing.”

The town of Sturgis, South Dakota, is the epicenter of the world’s largest annual gathering of Harley-Davidson motorcycle riders. Every August, thousands of bikers, from business magnates to Hells Angels, descend on the town. There’s nothing else like it in the world.

“How far are we from Sturgis?” I asked.

“A little over fifty miles.”

“I’d like to see that sometime.”

“There’s not much to see this time of year,” she said. “’Course it’s not as wild as it used to be. It’s like Christmas—it got commercialized.”

Just then I heard a doorknob turn and the back door opened. I looked over as Dawna’s other guest entered the room. It was Pamela.

“Hi, Alan,” she said softly.