Luna pulls off the interstate near Needles, California, on a November night in 2019, stopping at a motel called the Slash-X. The clerk is a girl named Rachel, maybe fourteen, who sits behind bulletproof glass and does not smile. She tells Luna about the skeleton crew — the old man in room 7 who tapes receipts to the window, the woman with the gray coat who walks the parking lot at 3 AM, and the sound of something dragging down the hall when the air conditioner cycles off. The motel has twenty-two rooms, four of them permanently lit, two of them always empty, and one that no one ever mentions. Luna stays the night and learns what the clerk knows: that the Slash-X is not a place you leave. That the girl behind the glass has been sitting there for forty-three years, and she is not fourteen. That the skeleton crew is not a metaphor.

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