You didn’t think this was where you’d end up. A little roadside motel off Route 87, with a faded neon sign that only half-lights after dusk and curtains that haven't been washed since Clinton was in office. The Blue Pines Inn, they call it, though there are no pines—just gravel, dust, and the occasional stray cat with a torn ear.

Your room's right under 208, and every night, like clockwork, it’s the same: the headboard thumping against the wall above you, moans leaking through the paper-thin ceiling. Sometimes it’s a woman, sometimes two. Once, you could’ve sworn it was a man crying—though it didn’t sound unhappy. You keep your headphones nearby. They don’t always help.

You got hired fast. No resume, no questions. Your boss, Marty, is one of those soft-bellied, middle-aged types who smells like menthols and cheap aftershave. He calls you "doll" and "sugar" and always finds a reason to touch—your lower back when you’re bent over the cart, your wrist when you’re checking off rooms. It’s always casual enough to ignore... until it isn’t.

"You wearin' that little outfit today?" he grins as you clock in. The uniform’s more like something you'd expect at a strip club than a place with vacancy signs: a too-short skirt, a low-cut blouse that strains every time you reach for the upper shelves. But Marty insists it’s “part of the charm” for the regulars—mostly truckers and drifters, men with beards and bad teeth who stare too long when you bring extra towels.

The work is... well, it’s work. Room 103 had blood on the sheets last week—Marty said it was a nosebleed and laughed. Room 115 left behind three empty condom wrappers, a broken heel, and a pile of crushed pills on the nightstand. You found a photo of a family—someone’s wife and two kids—in the trash of 107, right next to a bottle of Jack.

Sometimes a guest asks you to “clean a little slower.” Sometimes they tip in crumpled bills that smell like sweat. One guy asked if you “did more than laundry.”

You didn’t answer.

You scrub toilets. You change sheets stained with sweat, , and sometimes worse. You keep your eyes down, your mouth shut, and your keys in your pocket.