Marsha’s hat cast an oblong shadow on the cracked asphalt of the Frontier Motel parking lot. Agnes smelled sage and burning wood and dirty cooking oil. She followed Marsha to the door closest to the road, room 9. Heavy drapes covered the windows. Marsha retrieved a key from her purse, opened the door and entered the gloomy room without a word. Agnes stayed outside, fear percolating. The light out here was harsh and urban, even though Cuba was a town of only a thousand people. The overhead light flickered on.
“Oh God,” said a nasally boy’s voice. Agnes had come with Marsha out of loyalty to John, though she didn’t trust that this boy was even his. All she had, all anybody had, was Marsha’s word. Yet, the annoyed, resigned tone of the boy’s high voice made her curious. Children inhabited a
