In the summer of 2019, I was a night clerk at the Highway 12 Motel outside Lost Springs, Wisconsin. Between midnight and dawn, nothing moved except the cicadas and the occasional semi. But in late July, a child started crying from the vending machine alcove. Always at 2:17 AM. Always the same pattern: three short sobs, then a single word. I checked the security footage. The alcove was empty. The machine was unplugged. This is what happened when I finally opened the coin return.

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