Yellow fluorescents flicker on overhead and illuminate a bed that’s piled high with twenty or so garish throw pillows: striped square pillows, round polka-dot pillows, a few plaids, others with prints or birds or flowers or elephants. Some have fringe. One is paisley with velvet trim. It looks as though a rogue seamstress stole upholstery from several dozen old ladies’ living rooms and then stitched them into pillows. She then went on to decorate her orange prison jumpsuit with flower appliqués.

I kick the door shut behind me and carry my collection of three-ounce toiletries to the bathroom. All the fixtures are 1950s lime-green. I dump the toiletries beside a shell-shaped green sink and try not to notice the circle of mold around the taps.

I know it’s too much to hope for a minifridge. Even if there were one, I bet its contents would be a decade past their sell-by date, and I’d spend the night with food poisoning, vomiting on the hideous throw pillows—which couldn’t hurt their appearance but would hurt their odor. I check the motel room drawers and cabinets anyway and find a Gideon Bible, one gold earring, and a white sock. Everything I touch is coated with a layer of dust. The carpet is sticky. One very short night, I tell myself. I’ll leave as soon as it’s light out again.

First, though, I need food before I’m tempted to gnaw on the throw pillow that features an embroidered still life of a fruit bowl.

And then I’ll call Mom.

Leaving the room, I lock the door to protect my precious toiletries. A man combs through the parking lot, kicking at the piles of discarded clothes and poking in the bushes. I hurry past him, and I slip my hand into my pocket and relock my car doors. Twice. Mine is the sole car under the streetlamp. It looks on display, a shiny please-steal-me exhibit. But obsessively locking and relocking it is the best I can do.

I leave the car to its fate when I see there’s a diner across the street, the Moonlight Diner. It’s lit up with every holiday decoration possible: plastic blinking Santas, jack-’o-lanterns, American flags with neon fireworks. I trot across the street toward the gleaming beacon that promises French fries, pancakes, and milkshakes in a veneer of kitsch. Also a point in its favor: Moonlight isn’t spelled Moonlite. There are still no cars moving in either direction, though a few pickup trucks, Cadillacs, and old station wagons are parked by meters—all expired.

The diner looks open. I can see a few figures through the window, hunched over their coffee mugs and dinners. It reminds me of Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks, except with a lot more neon.

I open the door and walk inside. The bell over the door rings. Every person in the diner turns his or her head to look at me. A man who’d been stirring his coffee freezes midstir. All conversation ceases. Only the diner’s jukebox churns out any noise, a tinny drumbeat and a singer wailing out a song that I don’t recognize. I feel like a deer caught in neon headlights, and I freeze, too.

“Table for one, or do you want to make a new friend?”

A woman in a waitress uniform crosses the diner toward me. She plucks a menu out of the hands of another customer. She looks more like she belongs in a business suit than the checkered Dorothy Gale dress with apron that she’s wearing. Her black hair is slicked back, model-like, and her makeup was expertly applied to highlight her almond eyes. Her rich brown skin is so perfect that she looks poreless. Her voice is smooth, almost mocking, with a hint of a New York accent. I feel rumpled in comparison.

“One, thanks,” I say.

“Anywhere you want.” She waves at the tables and hands me the purloined menu.

I pick a booth by the window, away from the stares of a trucker guy who is halfway through a greasy cheeseburger, a kid who has three sundaes in front of him, a woman in a pink tracksuit who doodles on her place mat, and a man in a thick winter parka who huddles by the air conditioner. I open the diner menu in front of me both to read and to block their view of me. All the dishes are named after cosmological objects: the eclipse éclair, the solar flare flounder, the meteor meatloaf. They’re printed in the curve of a crescent moon.

Despite my menu shield, a woman slides into my booth. “Welcome to Lost!”

I am not in the mood to make pleasant conversation with random overly friendly strangers. Not that I ever am. I don’t want to hear about which relatives are visiting, what the weather will be like tomorrow, or why I’d look much better if I didn’t dye one strip of hair white.

For the record, it isn’t white; it’s colorless. I am keeping it stripped of all color until I decide whether to dye it blue, pink, or purple.

Or maybe it’s merely cowardice, not indecision. I know my office won’t approve of blue, pink, or purple hair. Clients come in, and we are told repeatedly that we represent the professional face of Daybreak Consulting Services. But they can’t object to white hair, or they’d have to censure our CEO.

Regardless, whatever this woman wants to chat about, all I want is food and sleep—and a decent excuse not to call Mom until morning. “I don’t mean to be rude, but...” I begin.

“That’s what people say when they’re about to be stunningly rude.” The woman smiles to soften her words. “Just came over to offer you a little advice.”

I have to concentrate on not rolling my eyes like Tiffany.

The woman is older, about sixty, with a face that’s unmemorable. Not pretty, not ugly, just pleasant. She has laugh lines around her brown eyes, and she wears tasteful gold earrings. She looks like the kind of woman who has raised two children and both have turned out well-adjusted. She leans over the table, as if to impart confidential information. “Order the pie. You’ll like it. They have an assortment of last slices.”

This isn’t what I expected her to say. I touch the white stripe in my hair and twist it around my finger, a nervous tic that I haven’t bothered to stop. “Last slices?”

“You know, the slice that’s always left behind because no one wants to take it,” the woman said. “Victoria, slice of the rhubarb!”

“Girl wants to be alone, Merry,” Victoria calls back. “And she needs protein. It’s important to keep your strength up when you’re in a new place.”

“You never worry about my strength, Victoria,” the trucker says mournfully.

“Can you still lift your ass out of that chair?” Victoria asks.

He demonstrates.

Victoria applauds sarcastically. “Eat your food and quit complaining.” She picks up a coffeepot. “Decaf tonight. Raise your mugs if you want some.” Several customers raise their mugs. The diner seems to have relaxed again. Still, no other conversations have started up.

It’s probably my mood, but it all feels a little off, as if the banter were staged for my benefit, as if they’d normally sit in silence.

“I’m Meredith,” the woman across from me says. “Folks here call me Merry. It’s on account of the fact that I like to smile. Also, it’s the first two syllables of my name.” She smiles again, and I think she must be sitting in an odd patch of light. She has glints of light on her arms and a soft haze around her hair.

“I’m just passing through,” I say. The kid at the counter continues to stare at me. And the trucker is shooting me looks between bites of his cheeseburger. Grease clings to his beard.

“Ahh, staying at the Pine Barrens. You’ll want to avoid room twelve.”

I nod in mock seriousness. “Dead bodies?”

Merry laughs and then sobers. “Just stay out of twelve.”

The waitress Victoria swings past and drops a plate of steak and mashed potatoes in front of me. “But I haven’t ordered...” I begin to say.

Merry leans across the table again and says in a stage whisper, “Don’t argue with Victoria. She knows what your body needs. Besides, that’s New York strip steak. You won’t see that here every day.”