Carlos keeps checking on Airbnb listings but there’s nothing we could afford, and anyway, we can’t trick the system into believing we’re the right age. So we start pulling into motels. “No vacancy,” a girl tells me and points to the sign out front. At a place with little cabins, the woman takes one look at my driver’s license and snaps it on the counter. “Sorry. Your parents need to be with you.”

We get in the car and keep going, down the long thin road, passing gray-shingle buildings selling lobster rolls and fried clams, miniature-golf places. The lighthouse we are aiming for is still miles ahead, in a town called Truro, but we figure any place to stay along the way will work.

As we’re slowing near what looks like a motel, without a sign, we see two young women close to our age walking on the side of the road, holding plastic bags.

“Hey,” Carlos calls. “Any room there?”

They look at each other. One has blond-streaked hair pulled into a ponytail; the other wears fringed denim shorts. “That’s for the people who work here. At the restaurant.” She has a thick accent—something European. She points to what looks like an old pancake house.

“Everyone?”

“If not there, they work the other restaurants.”

The blonde clomps toward us. She looks very cool: She’s wearing cowboy boots and shorts that sag at her hips. A tattoo flowers up her arm and around her shoulder. She too has an accent. “A girl who was supposed to come never made it.” She turns to her friend. “I heard Doris say she has to figure out what to do with the room.”

We find Doris pushing a rubber tub on wheels, spray cleaners hooked to the lip. Her face has a kind look, folding into a smile. “This place is meant for the kids who work around here,” she explains. “I can work,” Carlos says. “Delivery, busboy. Anything.”

She gives him a dubious look but I can see she likes his take-charge energy.

“I guess so. But this isn’t a Marriott or anything. Rooms are cleaned just once a week. You get new towels and that’s it. Laundry is around the back—get yourself lots of quarters. And pay me cash or Venmo. That’s better.”

“Thank you!” I exclaim.

“Don’t thank me,” she says. “Thank the girl who never showed.”

She pushes off, the spray canisters jiggling on the side of her tub.