Probably isn’t legal to sleep here.
One mention to the police and I’ll be back in Jundah.
I need something bigger than this tshirt to hide under.
A blanket, maybe. Or a towel.
My eyes dart to the motel driveway.
The restaurant lights have dimmed now.
The last patron has left.
I spot Beth behind the bar, polishing glasses and cutlery.
Where did I see it? Near the recycling bin?
I remember walking past a supply room on my way out of the kitchen.
Stacks of linen piled high.
Tablecloths. Sheets. That kind of thing.
Surely I could borrow one, just for the night.
I’ll bring it back as soon as I can.
No one needs to know.
It’s either that or get eaten alive by mozzies.
???
Tiptoeing along the side of the building, I check twice to make sure the coast is clear.
The kitchen door is wide open, lights beaming a thick triangle across the concrete.
A crate of empty milk bottles waits next to the drain.
I can hear the clatter of metal pans, and something on the radio.
The cooking crew are creating order from sticky chaos.
And there it is.
The linen cupboard, directly opposite the entrance.
I’ll have to be quick.
I turn the handle as quietly as I can.
It’s the second time today that I’ve had to open a door without being caught.
Shelves tower above me.
White upon white, neatly folded in crisp neat rows.
The fluorescent light makes my hand look almost villainous against the cloth.
