Run(4)

Gracie stayed out late. Gracie had boyfriends. Gracie went to parties and was going to college.

Gracie was getting out of Mursey.

And I was gonna be stuck here forever.





We don’t drive too far, just across the county line and a few miles down the highway. I mean to go farther, but the adrenaline’s fading fast, and the late hour is catching up with me. There ain’t no way I’m driving this tired. Not with Agnes in the car.

I pull into the parking lot of the first hotel I see. A giant, glowing sign tells us it’s Sleepy’s Spot. It’s awful big, two stories, and seems as decent a place as any to catch a few hours of shut-eye.

“Where are we?” Agnes asks. She don’t sound a bit tired.

“Hotel,” I say. “Come on.”

“Shouldn’t we keep going? We can’t be far from home yet.”

“I’m too tired to keep driving,” I tell her. “Your parents won’t know you’re gone until morning, and nobody’s gonna be hunting for me this late. If they are, they won’t be looking outside Mursey yet. We got a few hours.”

Agnes clearly ain’t so sure about this, but she don’t argue. I get out of the car and unload Utah, who stretches and yawns before hopping out of the backseat.

“Grab our backpacks,” I tell Agnes. “Don’t bother with your cane. I’ll guide you in.”

She tosses her white cane, folded up into a bundle of sticks, onto the floorboard. Me and Utah walk around the car and wait until Agnes’s got one backpack slung over her shoulders and the other hanging from her right hand. I stare at the purple bag for a second, the one she brought with her.

“You didn’t bring your phone, did you?”

“Of course not. Just clothes and money—like you said.”

“All right. Just making sure.”

She holds out her left arm, and I step forward, letting her grip just above my elbow, the way she’d taught me.

We don’t say a word as we head across the parking lot, toward the automatic sliding doors of the hotel.

“Good evening,” says the man behind the desk, even though it’s several hours past evening, if you ask me. “How can I help y’all?”

“We need a room,” I say.

His eyes fall on Utah, and he stumbles backward, even though there’s a tall counter between us. Like he’s scared my dog, who’s wagging her tail so hard she could clear a coffee table, might maul him. I oughta not be so hard on him, though. German shepherds do have real sharp teeth. And he don’t know Utah would never use them.

He clears his throat. “Ah. Well, do you have a reservation?”

“No.”

“I see … How old are you two?”

“Seventeen. Why?”

“I’m sorry, girls.” But he don’t look too sorry to me. “We can’t let you rent a room from us.”

“Why the hell not?” I demand.

He narrows his eyes at me. “Well, for one thing, we don’t allow pets. But even if we did, all our guests are required to be at least twenty-one.”

“Are you f*cking kidding me?”

“I’m afraid I’m not,” he says, and he sounds awful annoyed. Probably ain’t used to being cussed at by teenagers in the middle of the night. “And you’ll find that’s the case with most hotels in Kentucky. Now, if you have somewhere else to keep the dog and a parent or guardian who can—”

Me and Agnes are out the door before he can even finish that sentence.

“What do we do now?” Agnes asks when we’re back in the car. “We can’t rent a hotel room—I think the twenty-one thing might actually be the law.”

“Then we’ll find a place that’ll break the law.” I know there must be places that’ll rent to just about anybody. Too many girls get pregnant on prom night, and I know they ain’t doing it at their parents’ house. There’s gotta be somewhere that’ll let teenagers in.

We ain’t driven five minutes when I see a place. Big red lights above the door read MOT L—the E is burned out. The place looks run-down and dirty, even on the outside. The sorta place I’m sure a lot of drug deals have gone down in—many of them probably involving people in my family. If any place is gonna let two teenage girls rent a room, it’s this one.

Beggars can’t be choosers. Ain’t that what they say? And me and Agnes aren’t exactly on vacation. A shitty motel won’t be the worst thing that’s happened to us.

Well, not to me.

“Does this seem like a good place to try?” Agnes asks.

I’m glad she can’t see the graffitied brick walls or the trash-covered parking lot.

“Good ain’t the word,” I say. “But this is where we’re staying. Come on.”

Like I suspect, the man at the front desk don’t give a damn about our age. Just as long as we pay in cash. Agnes takes some money out of her backpack, and we get a key to a room at the far end of the parking lot. He don’t even ask about the dog. But when I unlock the door, I can see why. Utah can’t make this place any worse than it already is.

The carpet ain’t been vacuumed in years, and there are some mysterious stains on the wall I don’t even wanna know about.