"Who's there?" I ask, languidly dragging my feet to the door. "It's me." The adenoidal voice belonged to the motel owner, Margaret.
I quickly wipe my eyes and scatter my hair over my face to somehow shield my eyes that must hold proof of me crying so she wouldn't see it and ask prying questions
like she always does before opening the door to see her holding a tray like she has been doing for half the time I have been here.
"Good morning." I greeted, flashing a small smile.
"Morning." She responds, smiling sweetly. "I brought you some chicken pot pie. I had made a little too much." She said, giving me the tray which I graciously thanked her for and accepted because refusing her doesn't work.
Because of her, I couldn't be a pathetic shut-in. I did not come here looking for warmth or friendly smiles as it reminded me of betrayal.
