It was late October in the high desert, just outside a town called Piñon Flats. I was staying at the Mesa Inn, a motel built in the fifties with a sign that still buzzed pink at night. The woman at the front desk gave me a room on the second floor, far end of the hall. She didn't look up from her magazine when she handed me the key. That night, around two in the morning, I heard the door across from mine open. I looked through the peephole and saw a woman in a pale blue dress standing in the hallway, barefoot, her hair wet. She didn't knock on any door. She just stood there. I watched for almost a minute before I pulled away. The next morning, when I checked out, I asked about her. The day clerk said no one had been in room 22 across from mine for three months. And the photo on the motel's website, from 2006 — that same woman, in that same dress, standing at the registration desk. It's the only way I know what she looked like. I still see her sometimes, in the corner of my eye, in a hallway that's too quiet.