By the time I cross the long Howard Frankland Bridge to St. Petersburg, I’m exhausted. I decide to find a place to stay before I go meet my father. I need some time to gather my thoughts and figure out what I’ll say when I find him.

I get off at the first exit, passing a shopping center, a grocery store and a Bennigan’s. I pass another few restaurants and stores; then I notice the peeling Star Light Motel sign flickering a block farther down the road. I laugh out loud at the name. It’s practically calling to me. The place doesn’t look remotely like the five-star hotels I’m used to. But how bad can it be? Besides, with my name flickering at me in big red letters, how can I say no?

I turn right into its parking lot, and ten minutes later, I have my answer. After finding out from the drunk-looking clerk that a single room there is just $29 a night, or $189 if I want to pay by the week, I decide to pay for a week up front, because I have the feeling it may take me a few days to work up the courage to get back into my dad’s life. As I congratulate myself on getting what sounds like such a good deal, he hands me a rusty key and points outside, toward the back of the building. “Room one-twelve. You can pull your car right up in front.”

I thank him and repark the Beetle in front of the door to room 112. I get out and try the key in the lock. It takes a few minutes of jiggling, but finally, the door opens into a dingy, dimly lit room. I flip on the light.

It’s quite possibly the worst place I’ve ever seen. The green carpet looks like stale pea soup, and it’s so worn in places that I can see patches of the bare floor underneath. There’s a wooden bureau that’s cracked and chipped and missing one of its six drawers. The double bed is covered with a threadbare orange comforter that looks like it came from the 1970s, and it’s sagging in the middle. The bathroom door is open wide enough for me to see the flickering fluorescent light, the stained tiles and the rusty handle of an ancient-looking toilet.

“It’s not so bad,” I say to myself, trying to sound cheerful. “You can stay here for a week, anyhow. By then, you’ll have found your dad. You’ll be fine. Stop being such a wimp.” I’ve almost convinced myself that I’ll be okay when I spot a huge cockroach skittering across a bare spot in the carpet and disappearing under the bed.

I scream and slam the door to the room.