Seventeen

SEVENTEEN

There was no way to tell if the fog had dissipated throughout the day because, by the time Michael woke, the town beyond his window hazed again. Blue light from the halogen lamp in the carpark dueled with the neon pink MOTEL sign, dousing everything in slicks of color that refused to merge. Their glows seeped into the room, reflecting off his phone, burning in the dusty television screen.

It itched to look at, all that arcade lighting. Dreams were easier.

Flies crawled the walls and across the bathroom mirror. Every time he scrubbed the webs from his face they came back twice as thick. Michael gave up, breath pressing against the caul. In. Out. In. Out.

Readied himself in the kitchenette opposite the bed. Slipped on his shoes. Didn’t bother to take his phone with him. Key slid into the pocket of his jeans.

A closing door. Click.

His room was on the second floor of the wraparound balcony and he inched down the stairs at a deliberate pace. The last thing he wanted to do w