The motel's ceiling fan rotated so slowly that I was able to count the blades. Mounds of dust avalanching down in each sloth-like resolution. My mouth a desert, desiccated from the cheap vodka I'd drank the night before. My injured hand twanged a bit, jerking on its own. I threw my arm over to the other side of the twin bed. Nothing but the indent of the person who'd slept there last night woke up early and disappeared.

"Genevieve?"

No response, just the continuous buzz from ...