It was later that night, after midnight, everything outside cloaked in sinewy darkness. Marge was asleep, and the storm was keeping the guests tucked away inside their rooms, so the lobby was silent, save for the occasional burst of thunder and the rain that pummeled the roof with angry fists of water. I looked past my reflection in the glass door, watching as the pool overflowed and the palms thrashed around like crazed dancers. After months of drought, it was strange to see so much water everywhere, all at once. I wondered if I’d come home from my graveyard shift and see the trailer floating toward Los Angeles. Our piece-of-shit excuse for a home would flood and the used appliances and dollar-store decorations would burst through the door and windows, riding on tiny waves. My bras and my mother’s chipped dishes from Goodwill would float merrily down the middle of the highway all the way through the Grapevine, the mountain pass that separated us from LA.
