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pretend that you were a normal person, living a normal life. The ones that smelled like despair were the others, the ones where the sheets were stained and the water was cold and the walls were thin enough to hear the man in the next room crying. Ruth and William had stayed in more motel rooms than she could count, more than she wanted to remember. They had stayed in bright, cheerful ones with swimming pools and vending machines, where the neon signs flickered with promises of comfort and the parking lots were filled with families on vacation. They had stayed in dark, dreary ones with flickering lights and the faint smell of cigarette smoke, where the carpets were stained and the bedspreads were threadbare and the only sounds were the hum of the air conditioner and the distant wail of a train whistle. They had stayed in ones where the doors didn t lock and the windows didn t close and the only thing between them and the outside world was a flimsy curtain and a prayer. But no matter where they stayed, Ruth had always made sure to keep William close. She had slept with him in the same bed, her body curled around his, her arms wrapped around him like a shield. She had kept the photograph of James close, the only thing that reminded her that she had once known love, that she had once been happy, that there had been a time before the running. The photograph was worn and faded now, the edges soft from years of handling. She had looked at it so many times that she could trace every line of his face with her eyes closed—the gentle curve of his smile, the kindness in his eyes, the way his hair fell across his forehead. She had memorized every detail, every shadow, every nuance. It was the only thing she had of him, the only proof that he had existed, that the love had been real. She often wondered where he was, whether he was safe, whether he ever thought about her. She wondered if he was still running, still hiding, still fighting whatever battle had forced him to leave. She wondered if he had found peace, if he had found happiness, if he had found someone else to love. And she wondered if he ever thought about the son he had never known. The motel at the edge of town had been the worst one yet. It was a dirty, dilapidated place, the paint peeling off the walls in long, curling strips, the neon sign flickering in the darkness like a dying heartbeat. The parking lot was filled with potholes and broken glass, and the only light came from a single bulb above the office door, buzzing with the desperate energy of a trapped insect. The man at the front desk had been surly, suspicious, his eyes lingering on William in a way that made Ruth s skin crawl. He was a large man, with a thick neck and a permanent scowl, and he had looked at them as if they were something unpleasant that had tracked mud onto his floor. "One night," he had said, his voice flat and unfriendly. "That s all I can give you." Ruth had paid with the last of her money, her hands trembling, her heart pounding. She had taken William s hand and led him to their room, a small, cramped space with a single bed and a window that looked out onto a parking lot. The sheets were stained, the carpet was threadbare,