Some kind of Buick, left in a stream. It used to be somebody’s dream.
Chandury walked from the office to the his aged Honda and propped the broken hatch with his shoulder while he set the box beside the others.
He let the hatch drop and stretched his sore back.
The motel looked about the same from the outside, but he knew it was an illusion. The long decay that came from amassed deferred maintenance, guest complaints, refunds, vacancies.
The maids had been dismissed five years ago, the threadbare towels never replaced.
Bedbugs had been the final straw.