It was August of 2008, just past midnight on a two-lane highway outside of Abilene, Texas. I pulled into the Rusty Nail Motel because I couldn't keep my eyes open anymore. The clerk gave me room 14 without looking up from his magazine. The photograph was already hanging above the dresser when I walked in—a Polaroid of a woman with her face scratched out, but not by time. The ink was fresh. The scratches were still curled at the edges. I tried to sleep but the air conditioner hummed a note that wasn't mechanical. And the walls—they weren't just thin. They were listening. This is the story of what I found in the drawer of the nightstand, and why I still check the back of every photograph I see.

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