"She's asleep."

"Goodness. That's sad. Could you tell me if she's been asleep long? Or maybe she just went to bed?"

"Who is this?"

"Timmy Carlson."

"Just a minute."

"Hello?"

I had to head north early the next day, but I took Nick back into the hamlet and left him at its one motel. The Thistle Dew Alone, with only a wire to his mother for enough money.

A week later Nick writes. He has gotten a job in the Thistle Dew and is pursuing his dream.

Dear Timmy.

I'm still alive despite all the chances I've taken recently.

I'm frightened every time a policeman pulls in but the body rush quickly subsides when he says "I'll be needing a room about 1 a.m."?! Our switchboard is an antique which means that I have to put through all of the calls. The same policeman calls and says "Will you git this number fer me--and if a man answers--hang ep."

Another man whose face is terribly familiar comes in the office after parking around the side--in order not to reveal the passenger's identity--and asks for a room. He spends all his time pulling out his money despite my attempts to direct him to the registration card. I ended up insisting that he register and he hesitates, then begins. While he is writing he tells me, "I don't usually do this. We've got an arrangement here."

I'm catching on quick, it's just like anywhere else. I heard another story about the Moonlight Drive-In.

The reason that it is closed and in shreds is because it was always playing X-rated films which could be seen from the road. So (here it comes) some Southern Baptists stormed the place and reduced it to shambles.

After they completed the job they all swapped wives and checked into the Thistle Dew.