I wake up in the parking lot of a motel outside of Primm, Nevada. You can’t miss Primm: motels in the form of molded plastic castles with roller coaster scaffolding all the way around them and factory outlets as far as the eye can see.
Nicolette says, “What do you mean, ‘It’s too close’? Too close to what? Are you hallucinating?”
I open my eyes, and she’s peering at me over the front seat, the car lit up with acid greens and pinks from the motel’s looming sign. It takes me a while to register that the hallucination question isn’t an insult.
“Close to Las Vegas, home sweet home.” The flickering green and pink lights hurt my eyes and make my stomach lurch.
“You come from here?” she says. “Well, that explains a lot.”
“If you knew me, you’d see what a solid citizen I am. I go to high school in a tie.”
She pulls out a brush and starts fixing her hair. “I could check us in and you could pass out for a couple of days. They’ll take cash, right?”
This motel has the neon signs but not the amusement park, and it’s off the highway. “How old is Catherine Davis again?”
“Nineteen.”
“Knock yourself out.” I’m too dazed to be worried enough. Then a horn honks, and I start to worry. This car, for one thing, should have been ditched. And we shouldn’t be here.
Nicolette comes back with a key.
The motel’s sign has an eerie neon screech.
I say, “Open the door and mess up the bed, stick the key somewhere, and we’ve gotta go.”
She shrugs. “If stopping here was your idea, we’d be asleep by now. You know we would.”