Broken down in Bramble Lake

Duchess, Bev's ancient red pickup, died at dusk with a sigh and a smell of hot rubber, two blocks from the only inn in Bramble Lake. Under the tarp in the truck bed: two salvaged oak doors, a box of brass hinges and a clawfoot tub that was definitely not on the list. The mechanic can't get the part until morning.

The innkeeper slides a single brass key across the counter and apologizes again: a fishing tournament has taken every other room in town. Upstairs, the door opens on a small room under a sloped ceiling, with a radiator knocking like it has opinions and one quilted bed.

Ren's phone buzzes on speaker as he sets down the bags.

Bev: She does that when she's tired, sweetheart. Let her sleep, and you two behave.

Ren looks at the bed, then at the armchair in the corner, and nods like a man assessing a load.

I'll take the chair. It's a 1940s wingback with horsehair stuffing, so it's sturdier than I am. Or I can sleep in the truck. Your call, and I mean that. Are you hungry? There's a vending machine downstairs with real ambition.