THE MOTEL NEAR THE interstate overpass was intended for exhausted drivers desperate for shelter. The inn’s philosophy was apparently that the poor traveler would be too pooped to notice the worn carpet, thin 1970s-era bedspreads, and the particleboard furniture. A decrepit neon sign proclaimed “Motor Lodge.” Only the ‘r’ remained lit up. A smaller sign under the neon one advertised “HBO” and “American-Owned.” Myrtle couldn’t imagine another country that would claim it.
Miles parked the car under a tree in a distant parking space of the nearly deserted lot. “Look, there’s her car,” said Miles, pointing to a cream-colored Caddy. She shook her head as she considered the dismal motel. “Not listed in the travel agents’ honeymooner registry, is it?”
“Well, if you think about it, it’s the perf
