Sundown.

The overcast sky makes it difficult to tell. It has been gloomy and dark all day. But my last glimpse of the clock on the dashboard read 6:21. The sun has dipped below the horizon by now.

I sleep on and off, opening my eyes every now and then to catch the gleam of a streetlight or a pair of headlights that flare over the windshield. If I have dreams, I don't remember them. There is only a constant sense of unrest that grips me, like an animal clawing the back of my mind. In my dazed state, I am somehow under the impression it is Trip giving off the tension. I can almost picture it radiating off him, poisoning my blood.

That shouldn't make any sense, but in these racing, overtired thoughts, somehow it does.

When the car stops, the sudden halt in motion causes my eyes to fly open. I shift to sit straighter in my seat. I look at Trip.

He is the dark figure again. Just barely can I see the gleam of his eyes.

"Why are we stopped?" My voice is thick. It sounds strained, worried. It sounds like someone else talking. Not me.

A light sigh presses from Trip. He cuts the engine. "I'm tired."

Now my eyes dart around us. We're sitting in the parking lot of a motel. I don't know this street. I don't know exactly where we are. But I recognize this enough to know we are on the outskirts of the City now. It is just as uninviting, just as bleak and worn-out as I remember.

I catch movement in the corner of my eyes. A shadow in high heels looms across the street in the parking lot of a liquor store. I watch it through the back windshield as it wanders towards the boat of a car that has slowed to a stop on the curb.

I turn back, quickly. "I don't like it here."

Two gleaming eyes lock on me. "We aren't going anywhere else."

My mouth fastens shut at the callousness in his voice, warning me not to argue with him.

He pauses to glance up towards the dimly lit windows of the office to our right. When he speaks again, he tries to tone his voice down, just a tad. "It's best if you go in and get a room."

"Alone?"

"Yes, alone."

Turning my head, I look over the grimed windows of the office again. From here a wall blocks the view of who is behind the counter, but I can see the flashing colors of a TV reflecting off the windows. I look back at Trip—his eyes, which are still warning me.

"Okay," I mumble. I grab my purse and climb out of the car.

The temperature has dropped again. My breaths appear in mini-clouds of fog in front of me. Shivering, I pull my coat, which is still slightly damp, tighter around me as I trek across the parking lot.

Upon opening the door, I hear voices. My steps falter for a second until I round the wall and realize it is only the mutterings of a soap opera on the TV. Then my eyes land on the skinny man behind the counter.

He's asleep, his rotating chair turned towards the TV, his head lolled back, his jaw slack. A dab of drool in the corner of his mouth glints in the light of the TV.

Approaching the counter, I clear my throat in an attempt to wake him.

He doesn't move.

I try again. A bit louder this time.

Nothing.

I glance over the single lamp lighting the closet-sized room, and my eyes stop on the bell set next to it. With a quick step forward, I hit the bell once. And the man lurches in his chair, letting out a cry that sounds like a cross between a pig and a little girl. It would have made me laugh if he didn't scare me half to death as well.

The man looks at me, pupils the size of pinpoints, a hand on his chest. "You 'bout gave me a heart attack."

"Sorry." I give a cringing smile. "I just wanted a room."

"Yeah, yeah, a room." Still sounding a little out of breath, he turns in his chair to grab a key from the rack beside him. "Just, uh, just sign the book—here." He slides a spiral notebook across the counter and taps a finger on the blank line below a list of other scribbled names.

I pluck a pen from a tin can crammed with pencils and markers while the man picks at a scab on his cheek and watches me. Behind him, two actors are in the middle of a deep, awkward kiss.

I start to write down my name. E...v...

Wait.

I stop.

Maybe it's not such a good idea to use my real name. A second or two passes as I try to think up another name starting with EV. I'm too tired to get creative. I settle with Everest Smith.

"Great," the man says and takes the notebook. "It's fifteen for a room—uh... you get the whole works...a bathroom, TV, and uh... hopefully the heater works. I don't know if it will or not. There should be some extra blankets in the closet. If not, just call the, uh..." He points to a phone on the counter. "The office phone."

"Office phone," I repeat, nodding slowly. "Got it."

"So, that's gonna be... uh, fifteen dollars."

"Right."

After rummaging through my purse for a moment, I pull out a twenty dollar bill and hand it to the man. He turns to a cash register, which looks like it is about to fall apart. He has to bang on it a few times for it to open.

"Room three," the man says handing me my change and the room key.

"Thank you." And I am out the door.

Trip is already out, leaning against the car, watching me as I cross the parking lot back to him. I open the back door, still half-asleep, and clumsily drag out my suitcase. Apparently, I am taking too long as I start to slog it over the pavement because with an exasperated sigh, Trip snatches both the suitcase and the room key out of my hands. His hot fingers brush over mine for only a millisecond. And onward he stalks, leaving me to trail behind him.

His impatience is a factor that never seems to disappear.

The moment room three's door is swung open and the lights are flicked on, Trip throws my suitcase to the floor. Then stops. Looks around. And suddenly he is turning on me with an accusing look that makes me take a step back.

"What?" I ask, craning my neck to peer around his shoulder. The room isn't much—it's small and looks a little grungy. There is an ugly, yellow water spot in one of the corners. But that isn't my fault.

Then I see it.

One bed.

My fingertips go to the bridge of my nose, trying to squeeze away the headache that is starting to form. "Damn it. I forgot to tell him," I say. "Hold on. I'll call."

As I step around Trip and go for the phone on one of the nightstands next to the bed, he shuts the door with a bit of a jerk. His jaw sets. He isn't happy.

A piece of lined paper is taped to the wood of the nightstand, and handwritten across it is Offise Fone #, with a series of numbers scrawled down after it. I am shaking my head, for many reasons, as I pick up the phone and punch in the numbers.

The line rings twice before I hear a clattering and a "Yeah?"

"Yes, hi. This is room three."

"You... uh...need some blankets?"

"No." I glance at Trip who is glaring at me from across the room. "We need a different room. I forgot to ask for a room with two beds."

"Uh. Well."

I wait for a response other than that. But when it doesn't come, I am forced to ask, "That's not a problem, is it?"

"Well, we don't get lots of... uh... families here, I guess, uh... All the rooms have one bed." There is a pause on the line as neither one of us speaks. "But, uh, I might have one of those little fold-up cots around here somewhere—" The man must be up looking now because there is immense racket going on from his end. I hold the phone a little further away from my ear. "I—uh—I can't seem to find it at the moment."

A heavy sigh presses out of me. "That's fine. Thanks."

I hang up the phone and slowly, reluctantly turn to Trip.

His head is cocked to the side, slightly, almost bird-like. "What is it?"

My fingers fumble with the damp sleeve of my coat. "All the rooms have one bed."

"Fuck." Anger sparks in Trip's eyes, and it looks like he wants to hit something. And for a second I'm afraid he might close the distance between us and hit me. But his anger doesn't last long. It sizzles away almost as quick as it came, and is instead replaced with exhaustion. His shoulders fall. His eyes close. He's too tired to be angry.

I gnaw on my lip, watching him. "So..."What are we going to do? That's the question I'm going for. He's the one with the gun. It's his call, his decision. Shifting my weight from one leg to another, I glance down at the floor—perhaps my potential bed—and when I lift my gaze, Trip is looking at me.

"I'm sleeping in a bed tonight," he says. His icy eyes flash over me, quickly, so quickly I almost miss it, and then they flicker away. "But I won't make you sleep on the floor. That's your choice."

It takes a moment for me to grasp what he is saying. When I finally understand, when it finally clicks, my wide owl-eyes go to the floor and its thin, stained carpet, to the bed and its alluring pillows, back to Trip.