You nod.

The Man in the Hotel

We hit a lot of traffic on the highway and pull into a hotel late at night. I considered driving straight through, but we’d arrive in Nysa in the wee hours of the morning, and I want to see it as we drive in. I want you to see the river and the trees and the fields, because I know you’ll fall in love with it as soon as you do.

Besides, after so many miles behind us, it feels good to stop, stand up out of the seat, and stretch. You come around the car looking tired and worn but also happy. You are excited about the hotel and sleeping in a room where you can watch TV while you drift off, excited about room service even though I have made no promises.

We walk stiffly into the lobby and up to the counter. It’s not a glitzy, upper-crust hotel, but it’s not a dump either. There is a small breakfast room off to the side, and an old man sits in a chair reading the paper. A TV is on in that room, volume turned up, but the man goes on reading as if nothing is going on and the angry voice radiating through the room is nothing more than an imaginary buzzing in the ear. The carpet is tan, the walls are a darker tan, and the ceiling is white, but time has stained it a certain shade of tan. There is nothing remarkable about this place, not in the slightest. Which is fine with me, as long as the bed is comfortable.

But still it gives me a strange feeling, as most hotels in small towns do when the hour is late and the space feels vacant. The hallway from the lobby seems miles long, and at the very end of it one of the lights in the ceiling flickers for a few moments and goes out.

The woman behind the desk smiles, and I think I see her eyes flit to the side of my head, to the bulge of the knot. I self-consciously rub it lightly, then drop my hand back down again, because trying to hide it seems more conspicuous than pretending it’s not there.

“How may I help you?” the woman asks.

I give her my information, and as we wait for keys, the old man who was reading the paper stands up and comes walking over. The top of his head is bald, surrounded by a fringe of bristling white hair. His eyes purse together in a permanent squint—he is skeptical of what someone might say before they even say it. He licks his lips constantly, nervously, and they glisten.

I think he’s going to walk past, but he stops behind us, puts his fingers in each of his pockets, and loops his thumbs around the outside. I glance at him over my shoulder, and he takes me in with a discerning frown.

“Not from around here.” His voice is gravelly, his eyes hawkish.