I’m not tired, though, not even a little: “I’m going to check out the vending machine,” I tell Imogen, slipping outside and down the concrete staircase, humid night pressing in from all sides. I dig a dollar out of my shorts and get myself a pack of Twizzlers—not Red Vines, but they’ll do in a pinch—then wander back up to where our room is. Instead of going back inside, I lean over the concrete railing for a minute, staring blankly at the neon light of the motel sign and the Burger King across the street and trying to ignore the chorus of voices—Julia’s, Connie’s, Penn’s, Patrick’s loudest of all—echoing endlessly through my skull. I don’t know how long I’m out there before the door opens behind me. “You’re right here?” Imogen asks, flipping the deadbolt so the door won’t lock behind her and joining me on the catwalk. The faint scent of cigarettes lurks in the air. “I thought you got murdered.” “Sorry,” I tell her, holding out the package of Twizzlers.
