Page 46 of Unmanageable

“I’m not driving because you snatched the keys out of my hand at the diner and refused to relinquish them!” I shout over the high-pitched, rhythmic rattle of the rear engine.

“To save our lives from your aggressive acceleration!”

“I’m an athlete, Scottie, my reflexes are literally my entire net worth!”

“Well, your reflexes aren’t finding us a bed!” She throws one hand up off the wheel briefly, turning her face toward the side window to hide the look of frustration in her eyes. Or maybe tears.

I let out a long, hard breath through my nose, forcing my hands to loosen where they’re gripping the armrest.

I’m an idiot. She’s stressed, she’s exhausted, and she’s trying to hold the world together with a dead phone and an old van.

Ahead of us, a flickering, weak yellow light appears through the trees. Scottie hits the brakes, the bus skidding on the damp asphalt before she steers it into a gravel lot.

It’s a wooden sign hanging crookedly from a post: The Sleepy Hollow Cabins.

She kills the ignition. The engine gives one last, metallic pop and hiss before dropping into heavy silence. The lot is empty except for an old pickup truck with a missing tailgate.

In front of cabin four, a large cow is tied to the porch railing, idly chewing on a piece of cardboard like it’s a gourmet meal.

“There is a literal livestock animal tied to the porch, Scottie. I have a spine that requires an actual mattress, not a pile of hay and a tetanus shot.”

“It’s a roof,” she says flatly, her voice tight. “I’m going inside.”

She pushes her door open and steps out into the damp, cool night before I can stop her. I sit in the dark cabin for five seconds, rubbing my palms over my face.

By the time I reach the small, cracked concrete porch of the office, Scottie is already walking out, clutching a brass key with a plastic red tag that has the number seven written in sharpie on it.

“One room,” she says before I can ask.

“Great.” I reach down, taking the heavy duffel bag from her left hand. She tries to hold onto the strap for a second, a stubborn, automatic reflex, but her fingers loosen when I give it a gentle tug. “Come on. Let’s just get it over with.”

The walk to Cabin 7 is short, the gravel shifting unevenly under our feet. Scottie stands back as I shove the brass key into the lock. It resists, grinding against the old tumbler, until I put my shoulder into the door and turn the key hard.

The door swings open, and I reach inside, groping along the wall until my fingers hit a plastic switch. A single, bare bulb hanging from the ceiling flickers twice before settling into a harsh, yellow glare.

The room is barely nine feet wide. There’s a laminate dresser with a missing bottom drawer, a small, boxy television from the nineties sitting on a plastic milk crate, and walls made of dark faux-wood paneling that has peeled away at the corners.

And in the center of the room is the bed.

It’s a standard, sagging mattress, draped in a thin, scratchy brown wool blanket that looks older than I am.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say, dropping the bags onto the floor.

Scottie doesn’t move from the doorway. She stays entirely still, her arms wrapped tightly around her chest, her eyes wide as she stares at the mattress.

“He said two beds,” she whispers. “He told me it was a double. I asked him specifically.”

“Scottie?” I step closer to her, my brow furrowing. “Hey. You okay?”

“I’m fine.” She takes a sharp step backward, her heel catching on the metal threshold of the door. “I’m just cold. The AC is… it’s just cold in here.”

“The AC isn’t even turned on. It’s eighty degrees in here.” I reach out, my hands hovering just inches from her shoulders. “Whoa, stop moving back. I’m not going to corner you.”

“I’ll take the floor,” she says quickly, her gaze darting to the stained carpet. “I messed up the reservation. It’s my fault. I’ll take the chair. Or I can go sleep in the front of the bus—it’s fine, I can lock the doors—”

“Scottie, stop.” I step directly into her line of sight, keeping my posture loose and non-threatening. “Look at me. I am not letting you sleep on a wooden chair, and I am sure as hell not letting you lock yourself in a hot van in a dark parking lot. And I’m not sleeping on this floor because I’m pretty sure that carpet is currently growing its own ecosystem.”

She bites her lower lip, her fingers digging into the fabric of her sleeves.