12
Before Dale could think about it, he’d stuffed a notepad and pen in his right-hand cargo pocket, his chintzy eight-inch tablet in the left, triple-checked that he had his hotel room key in his front pocket, and marched himself out to the elevator.
The Willow Tree Inn’s ninth-floor elevator vestibule looked drab compared to the splendid lobby. Tightly woven carpet, an indeterminate shade between blue and gray, offered only mild padding over the concrete floor. The walls of high-durability laminate were scuffed and scraped at the levels where overloaded luggage carts would slam into everything. Laser-printed signs taped above the call buttons advertised room parties: a karaoke party, a Hufflepuff party, parties for other conventions. Plus something called “Barfleet,” whatever that was.
