The lobby was painted the same dingy gray as the exterior. It was hardly larger than Dea’s hospital room had been, and it stank of burned coffee. There were holes in the carpet. A guy, maybe twenty or twenty-one, his face an explosion of pimples and scars, was sitting behind the desk, hunched over his phone. He barely looked up when Connor and Dea entered.

“What’s up?” he said.

“We need a room.” Connor was trying to sound assertive, but Dea could tell he was nervous. Dea leaned on the counter, partly because she was trying to look casual, partly because she was still troubled by dizziness that overtook her in waves, rolling the floor out from underneath her, tugging at her knees and telling her to fall.

The guy squinted at Connor. “How old are you?”

“Old enough,” Connor said. Dea hoped that was true. She had no idea how old you had to be.

The guy sighed, like they were being a big pain in the ass. “IDs?”

Connor hesitated. The last thing they wanted to do was give over their IDs—besides, Dea didn’t have one.

Dea jumped in, “Look, we just want to get in and get out. All cash. No trouble.” She’d seen her mom do this hundreds of times. No trouble, please, will you make an exception? Just for us, just this once. And a fifty would pass hands, palm to sweaty palm, and that would be that. Dea had tucked the envelope of cash into the waistband of her leggings, under her sweatshirt. She removed it now, making sure that the guy behind the desk was looking. He was. His expression shifted, turned eager, calculating.

“Cash?” he said. He licked his lips, which were very thin. Dea nodded. “It’s gonna be sixty bucks for the night,” he said quickly. Dea was sure he was lying, doubling the price at least, but she didn’t care. “Plus a twenty-buck deposit,” he added, when he saw Dea thumbing through her money. “Because of no ID.” He was a terrible liar.

Connor started to object but Dea just shook her head. She laid a hundred-dollar bill on the counter.

“I don’t have change,” the guy said. Another lie. His face was the color of ketchup. Even his pimples seemed inflamed.

“Just give us the key,” Connor said, losing patience.

“Seventeen.” The guy slid a small metal key across the counter. “Make a left out the door and go all the way to the end. You’ll have lots of privacy,” he added, with a smile Dea didn’t like.

She grabbed the key. “Thanks.”

Outside, Dea wobbled a little in her too-small heels and Connor put a hand on her back, then quickly released her. Their breath seized and vanished in the air. Beyond the lights of all the fast food chains and motels, Dea could make out a light sprinkling of stars, like a dusting of sugar.

They had to walk past the room where they’d seen the man and woman together. The curtain was now totally shut, but as they approached, Dea heard a headboard knocking against the wall and the sound of a woman moaning. She could feel her whole body blush.

“Very theatrical,” was all Connor said. Dea wondered whether he had a large basis for comparison and then felt stupid for being so petty. It was none of her business.

Shockingly, the room was all right. Clean, at least. The TV didn’t work and the shower curtain was speckled with mold, but the beds were made with fresh sheets and the smell of cigarette smoke had been mostly obliterated under the acrid tang of bleach and something thick and floral, like the kind of scent people sprayed in public bathrooms. There were two double beds. Dea was relieved and also a teeny, tiny bit disappointed.

Connor sat on the bed nearest the door. He leaned his elbows on his knees. His eyes were bloodshot. Dea wanted to go to him and smooth down his hair. But she stayed where she was, against the door, suddenly paralyzed by awkwardness and the awareness that she hadn’t showered and she looked ridiculous and she was alone in a locked room with Connor, the boy she loved.

“Now what?” Connor said. “I’m just supposed to . . . sleep?”

Dea nodded. She had told him in the car that she needed back into his dreams, although she hadn’t told him the whole truth: she didn’t know how much longer she could make it without walking.

Now, he kicked off his Vans, one at a time, and stretched backward on the bed with his arms folded behind his neck. But he didn’t close his eyes, and he didn’t turn off the lights. She’d never tried to walk a dream with the knowledge—participation, even—of the dreamer. She wondered whether it would change things.

Dea forced herself to move away from the door. She felt awkwardly tall, standing in her heels while he was lying down. She went to the second bed and sat. The mattress was flimsy and sagged under her weight. “Do you think your parents will be worried about you?”

Connor shrugged. “My dad will figure it out. My stepmom doesn’t care. She doesn’t like me.” He said it matter-of-factly. “I think she really believes I did it, you know.” His eyes ticked to hers. “To my mom and little brother. Sometimes she looks at me like I might be two seconds away from grabbing a hatchet.”

She felt guilty that she had ever envied Connor, and assumed his family to be perfect. She had never known her father, but she had also never suffered a loss. And her mom was her best friend. Crazy and infuriating, yes. A massive liar, check. And trapped in a dream. Still—Dea’s best friend.

“What about school tomorrow?” It was either Tuesday or Wednesday; Dea knew that. “You’ll get in trouble.”

Connor turned to face her. The bare fluorescent bulb above the bed cut his face into hard geometric shapes. “Damn.” For the first time all night, he was smiling, just a little. “You’ve got your days crossed, don’t you?”

“What do you mean?” Dea was sure—sure—it wasn’t a weekend. She’d kept track in the hospital as best she could, and she couldn’t be that far off.

“It’s break,” Connor said. “Tomorrow’s Thanksgiving.”

She had completely forgotten. She’d been pulling herself through the hours one by one, like a snail tracking slowly across asphalt, taking it inch by inch.

“I’m sorry,” she said. She really was.

“For what?”

She looked away. It was nice of him to pretend she didn’t have to apologize, which made her feel even guiltier. “For dragging you into this. For getting you in trouble.” She was, too. Sorrier than she could ever say. “I’m sorry you’re missing Thanksgiving.”

“That’s all right.” Connor shrugged. “I never liked Thanksgiving, anyway. Too much turkey.”

This made her smile. For a second, he sounded like the old Connor—the one who could hardly ever keep a straight face, who made her laugh until she snorted her soda. “Well . . . thanks. For everything.” She stood up. Her body ached with exhaustion. At the same time, she wasn’t ready to lie down. She wasn’t quite ready to venture into Connor’s dreams—she was afraid of what she would find and also what she might not find. Miriam had to be where the men with no faces were, which meant she had to be in Connor’s nightmare. Or did she? What if Dea was wrong? She, too, was delaying. “I’m going to shower,” she said. “Try to relax.”

“Relax,” he repeated. His face got serious again. “So you can walk in my head. In me.”

She nodded. There was nothing to say—no words of comfort she could give him.

In the bathroom, she avoided looking at the mirror directly, and quickly hooked a towel over the bare bulbs mounted above it. She felt better once her reflection was concealed.

She took an extra-hot shower, scrubbing with the flimsy rectangle of soap that had been provided, as if she could wash away the past few weeks and everything that had happened. She re-dressed in the leggings and sweatshirt, silently vowing to go shopping as soon as she could. She should do something with her hair, too—dye it or chop it. She experienced a moment of superficial regret: she’d spent her life hating her hair but it was still hers.