Chapter 3: The Transit Lodge
The motel was called The Interstate Rest, a two-story concrete block structure situated between a twenty-four-hour diesel truck wash and a gravel lot where surplus shipping containers were stored. The neon sign outside flickered with a dull, buzzing orange glow, the 'R' and the 's' dead for so long that the remaining letters spelled out The Interstate et.
The rain had slacked into a greasy, cold drizzle that coated the asphalt in a rainbow film of old motor oil and diesel exhaust.
Ethan paid the taxi driver with a twenty-dollar bill, balancing Lily on his hip as he stepped over a deep puddle that had formed beneath the metal awning of the manager’s office. The air here smelled different from the Grand Regent. There was no white tea or premium wood polish; there was only the smell of damp carpets, industrial disinfectant, and the heavy, sulfurous exhaust of the freight trucks downshifting on the highway ramp fifty yards away.
The clerk behind the bulletproof glass partition was a middle-aged man named Arthur, whose sleeveless grey sweatshirt revealed arms covered in old maritime tattoos. He didn't look at Ethan’s leather jacket with judgment, because Arthur had seen forty men in leather jackets walk through his door since his shift began at four o'clock.
“Double bed, seventy-five a night plus the tax,” Arthur said, his voice flat as he pushed a plastic key card through the slot in the glass. “Ice machine’s around the back by the vending area. Keep the noise down after ten; the truckers like their sleep.”
“Thank you,” Ethan said.
Room 114 was located on the ground floor, its metal door scratched and dented near the bottom where countless suitcases had kicked against the frame. Inside, the room was small, cold, and lit by a single fluorescent bulb that hummed with a low, vibrating drone that set Ethan’s teeth on edge. The carpet was a coarse, dark brown nylon that had been scrubbed until the pile was flat, and the two double beds were covered in thin, scratchy polyester comforters that bore the faint, ghost-like gray circles of old cigarette burns.
Ethan laid Lily down on the bed furthest from the window.
She groaned softly as her weight left his arms, her body instantly curling into a tight, protective ball against the stiff white sheets. Ethan knelt beside the mattress, his fingers carefully working the zipper of his backpack to avoid the sharp creeeak of the teeth. He reached past the fruit snacks and the dead tablet, pulling out Barnaby.
The stuffed rabbit was missing its left ear, its gray plush fur rubbed smooth in places where Lily had held it against her nose during the long, terrifying nights after the hospital machine had gone silent.
Ethan slid the rabbit under her arm. Lily’s fingers found the velvet fabric of the remaining ear instantly, her thumb moving toward her mouth as her breathing smoothed back down into the slow, heavy rhythm of deep sleep.
Ethan stood up, his spine popping twice as he straightened his back. He walked over to the small, laminate-topped desk near the television, where he set the bouquet of red roses down next to a plastic ice bucket.
The roses looked worse now. Three of the primary blossoms had opened prematurely due to the heat of the taxi, their red edges turning a dark, bruised shade of purple. A few of the leaves had fallen away, resting on the fake wood grain of the desk like drops of dark blood.
Ethan sat down in the single vinyl chair, his leather jacket creaking against the frame. He pulled his smartphone from his inner pocket. The battery was at four percent, the screen flashing a warning notification before the interface dissolved into a black screen.
He didn't have a charger that fit the room's old outlets, and he didn't have the energy to ask Arthur for an adapter.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, heavy silver coin—a corporate token issued to the founding members of the Regent Group on its tenth anniversary. On one side was the stylized 'V' of the Vance corporation; on the other was the phrase Service Above Self, carved in small, sharp Roman block letters.
Ethan turned the coin over and over in his palm, the silver cold against his calloused skin. He looked at his daughter’s pink boots resting on the floor, then at the wilted roses, and then out the cracked window where the headlights of the semi-trucks cut through the gray Chicago rain.
May you like
For three years, he had believed that by stepping away from the company, he was protecting Lily from the distortion of wealth. He had wanted her to grow up in a world where things were measured by their value, not their price. But tonight, he had learned that the absence of wealth did not protect you from the distortion of human nature. It simply made you the target for the small, territorial cruelties of people who had spent their lives bowing to the money they didn't own.
“Tomorrow,” Ethan whispered into the dark room, his voice swallowed by the hum of the fluorescent tube. “Tomorrow, we go home.”
