She shook her head.
Tears ran through dirt on her cheeks.
“Can you tell me?”
Another head shake.
Then she whispered, “Please.”
That was enough.
I dropped to one knee.
The cracked flap was jammed shut.
I pulled.
Nothing.
I looked into the thin opening.
Darkness.
Ice.
Something was sitting behind it.
Heavy enough to wedge the mechanism.
I reached for my pocket.
The manager put his hand on my shoulder.
I shrugged him off sharply.
“Don’t.”
He stumbled back.
His face had gone white.
I pulled out my steel Zippo.
I wedged the edge into the plastic crack.
The manager shouted.
“Stop!”
I twisted.
SNAP.
The flap broke.
For half a second nothing happened.
Then the entire machine shuddered.
A mass of half-melted ice collapsed through the chute.
Cubes scattered across the concrete.
Freezing water poured over my boots.
The little girl gasped and buried her face against my arm.
The manager made a choking noise.
I looked down.
Most of what had fallen was ordinary ice.
Except one piece.
A cloudy block the size of my fist sat among the cubes.
Something pink was frozen inside.
I picked it up.
The desert air started melting it immediately.
Fabric appeared.
A sock.
Tiny.
Child-sized.
Faded pink.
White daisies stitched near the ankle.
There was dirt on it.
And a rusty dark stain I decided not to identify yet.
The little girl stopped breathing.
I noticed because I could hear everything else.
The neon hum.
Cars passing on the highway.
Water dripping from the ice machine.
The manager’s shoes shifting behind me.
I tore open the wet sock.
Something heavy dropped into my palm.
A brass motel key.
Old-fashioned.
Not electronic.
Attached to a green diamond-shaped plastic tag.
The white number printed across it was worn but readable.
I looked down the walkway.
My room was 112.
Room 114 sat directly next to mine.
When I checked in, I had asked for a quiet room.
The manager told me the entire wing was empty.
Room 114, specifically, was supposedly out of service because of a water leak.
I rose slowly.
The manager backed away.
“When I checked in,” I said, “you told me 114 was empty.”
His mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
“You said a pipe burst.”
He swallowed.
I held up the key.
“So why is its key frozen inside your ice machine?”
“It’s an old key.”
“Looks current.”
“We have duplicates.”
“Then why are you sweating?”
“It’s Nevada.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
The little girl stared at the sock.