The motel room held heat like it had something to prove.
Galathea Brooks sat cross-legged on the edge of the bed, the thin curtains doing nothing to stop the late afternoon sun from pressing through the glass. The standing fan in the corner rotated with a tired mechanical hum, pushing warm air in a slow, pointless cycle.
She didn't adjust it again.
It worked and for now, that was enough.
The popsicle in her hand had already begun to melt, thin streaks of sugar sliding over her fingers before she caught them absent-mindedly with her tongue. Cherry artificial flavor, cheap, cold for a moment and gone the next.
Also enough.
Her phone buzzed against the mattress beside her.
She glanced at it without urgency.
Bills, most likely.
Or a buyer trying to renegotiate something already settled.
She picked it up anyway.
Routine didn't stop just because everything else had.
The popsicle slid between her lips as she unlocked the screen, her attention already moving ahead of expectation.
