2.

I pulled over on what seemed like the main strip in Kane, though I was the only soul around. Another car passed every few minutes, but otherwise, nothing. A fog loitered over the streets and footpaths, finding its way into alleys and driveways and locked doorways. It had a luminance from the yellow street lights and rolled over itself like something alive and breathing.

When another car drove by, the fog would recede; a pocket of still, clear air left behind for a moment before the fog would fill it, chasing and reaching for the back of the car like an outstretched hand. I already didn’t want to be here.

It was 7.40 p.m. and Kane was asleep; I was a far shot from New York City. Doubling back, I passed a motel I’d missed when driving in. It was a white, two-storey house on a lawn, with a more typical-looking motel building behind. The air around my face and arms was cold, but the fog had turned my legs to ice. The screen door creaked as I heaved my bags through and walked into the reception, which looked like a converted living room.

Lowering them to the floor, I let out a deep breath of relief. A small doorbell rested on the counter, ‘Press ONCE for assistance’ printed on a laminated card taped down beside. I pressed the button, once, and a tired chime sounded in another room. A minute passed as I fought the urge to press the button a second time, distracting myself with photos hung on the walls. An old woman opened the door behind the counter.

‘You after a room?’ she asked, her words trickling out like a leaking faucet.

‘Yes, please.’

‘How many nights?’

‘Just the one for now.’

‘Can’t promise there’ll be any tomorrow night.’

‘That’s fine.’

‘Thirty dollars,’ she said, leaning over the counter, sliding her glasses back up her nose and looking at my bags on the floor. ‘You haven’t done much of this, have you?’

‘Much of what?’ I asked, handing her two twenties.

‘Travelling, or whatever it is you’re doing.’

‘No, I haven’t.’

‘Mm-hmm,’ she said, opening a small money box in slow motion. She fished out a tenner and handed it to me. ‘None of my business,’ she added, ‘but there’s no point lugging those bags all this way just to ask if there’s a vacancy. Eventually, you’re gonna get all worn out, only to find there was never a place for you.’

I walked down to the one open shop on the strip, a pizzeria, and made it in before closing time to wash down two slices with five beers. ‘These numbers are usually the other way around on the bill,’ the clerk joked. I swayed back to the motel, pulling against the embrace of the ghosts hiding in the fog along the way, and stripped down for a shower. With my shirt off, I saw the aftermath of the day. Dark red painted my arms, the sunburn stopping in an abrupt line at my shoulders before beginning again in a crest along my collarbones and consum­ing my face. If you’re going to chase the sun, prepare to get burnt.

I ran cold water over my body and drank up as much as I could from cupped hands, then collapsed onto the linen bedcovers, naked and fatigued, and began to sink into sleep. The fan whirred and cast a soft breeze over my damage. I was too young to be this worn.