Blake looked confused.
“What?”
“One room,” Amy said.
Blake confirmed it.
“One room.”
“One bed?” I asked.
They hesitated. Rose closed her eyes.
“The hotel lost part of our block,” Blake explained. “There is one room remaining. A king.”
Amy became very still. I tried not to smile. Not because it was funny. Because nervousness and delight had become unhelpfully similar.
“We can switch,” Rose said.
Blake shook their head. Rose’s accessible room had to remain assigned for event medical coverage. Amy offered the floor; I refused because she was racing. Blake handed her the key and promised additional bedding before escaping.
“There is a chaise,” they called from a safe distance.
“Dani takes it,” Rose said.
“You are enjoying this.”
“I am protecting my patient.”
Rose pointed at me.
“Sleep.”
“I will.”
“No emotional catastrophes.”
“Can those be scheduled?”
“With you, apparently not.”
Amy rolled her suitcase toward the elevators. I followed.
At the elevator, she said, “This is exactly why I wrote rule five.”
“No sharing a bed.”
“Yes.”
“There is a chaise.”
“We have not seen it.”
“Optimism.”
“The room diagram online shows a decorative bench.”
Amy held the key card between two fingers like evidence in a case against the hotel.
