"The beauty of a knife is that it can't be reduced into anything simpler."

~ The Hermit

The fast-food supper spread out on the dashboard of the white SUV doesn't last long, but the grease stains it leaves will. The flimsy wrappers and bags don't do much to sop up the wages of drive-through sin.

Hits the spot, though.

"You save the best for last?" Sunglasses says after washing down his burger and fries with a long sip from a straw plugged into lemon-lime pop.

Pop. Not soda. This is Wisconsin.

Zandra examines the bottom of her fry cup. A lone, curly strip of fried potato looks back at her. She says, "They curl the fries so that they take up a disproportionate amount of space in the cup. They can charge more for less, even when the cup looks full."

She tips the cup into her mouth and wishes she hadn't downed her pop so soon.

"I'll bet they do the same thing with all the Coke they sell, too, but margin policing fast food products isn't what I was referring to," Sunglasses says. "You're stalling."

"How about this? I tell you the address, you go there, knock on the door, hand the invite, and walk away," Zandra says. She uses her sleeve like a napkin and dabs at her mouth.

"Why so mysterious?"

"I'm not going to get you killed, if you're worried. I would've done that already," Zandra says. "It's a simple thing, that's all. Just don't stick around for chit-chat."

"Then tell me the address."

Zandra does. They gather the wrappers and bags into a ball that Zandra tosses out the window once the white SUV is on the road again. Sunglasses grumbles in disapproval.

"Oh, stop it," Zandra says.

A few minutes later, the white SUV pulls into the parking lot of an apartment building. People in Stevens Point refer to it as one of the "nice" apartment buildings, but only with a heaping dose of sarcasm. There's little nice about the shaggy lawn, cracked windows, curling shingles, or siding degraded by woodpeckers like grapeshot.

Zandra hands Sunglasses a business card after the SUV is parked. "Apartment 201."

"Name?" Sunglasses says and takes the business card.

"Don't bother. Buzz the apartment at the entrance. Say it's from me. That'll be enough," Zandra says. She looks out the window, steering her eyes from Sunglasses.

"Context would help."

"No, it wouldn't."

Sunglasses pauses to be sure Zandra's finished before exiting the SUV. Through the window, Zandra watches him walk to the entrance of the apartment, his flip-flops nipping at the balls of his feet the whole way. He steps inside the entrance and presses a button on a panel.

Too much glass separates Zandra from Sunglasses for her to make out the conversation that follows, but the brief back-and-forth ends with him leaving the business card on top of the panel.

Zandra wants to ask how the conversation went, but she decides against it when Sunglasses returns to his seat behind the steering wheel.

"So what else for tonight?" Sunglasses says and drives the white SUV back onto the road.

He didn't say that the invitation was turned down. That should be good enough.

"Bar?" Zandra says.

"Not when someone is looking to kill you. Besides, I didn't think you drank."

"Not really, but I still like to smoke and admire the wildlife, pick up a new client or two," Zandra says. "The sad drunks like to get their palms read starting at about midnight, after the angry drunks cool off or get arrested."

Sunglasses slows the SUV and steers around a pothole. "I thought smoking is banned in the bars in Wisconsin?"

"Sure it is," Zandra says and croaks out a laugh.

"I still say we should avoid the bar. Let's call it an early night."

"What about my room? Someone messed it all up."

That issue is revolved back at the Holiday Inn. The front desk worker, a fresh face, informs the pair that the room is now "reset."

"You mean everything is back to normal?" Zandra says, occupying her hands with a free pen she clicks to the beat of her agitation.

"Of course. Is something wrong?" the front desk worker says.

"Hang on," Zandra says. She slides down the desk to Sunglasses. In a hoarse whisper, she says, "They fucked the room up."

Sunglasses rubs the indents flanking his nose where his sunglasses used to rest. He says, "What?"

"They cleaned it."

"You're mad about a clean room? You should see what I found on my ceiling with the UV light."

"I could've pulled information off of what that asshole touched. Now I'm dealing with assholes, plural," Zandra says. She runs her hand through her hair until a knot traps a finger, then pushes through with a pop. It's a classic stress tell, and it's only half for show.

Psychics love to touch objects and pretend to "see" who used them. It's amazing that they only claim to see exactly what's convenient in the moment.

"Tell them to fix it," Sunglasses says.

"Un-unfuck the room? I don't think so," Zandra says. "This is ridiculous. You should get your money back."

"Because they did their jobs? Weren't you complaining to them earlier?"

"Exactly," Zandra says. She takes a moment to pause and think. "Just shut up and go with this."

"Go with what?"

Zandra slides down the desk back to the worker. She says, "I don't recall requesting a room reset."

The worker looks confused. "I'm sorry. It's standard. I hope you're not too upset by this."

"I am quite, actually, but I'll let you make it up to me. See that guy standing right there?" Zandra says and points to Sunglasses. "Credit his account. All room service on the house. Oh, and don't give me any of this I-have-to-talk-to-my-manager nonsense, neither."

"Well, I am the night manager," the worker says.

"Then tell yourself it's all on the house. All of it," Zandra says before shuffling off to the elevators. Sunglasses shoots the front desk worker a weak smile before joining her.

"If life gives you lemons, make the bastards pay you for the privilege of holding on to their trash fruit," Zandra says as they step into the elevator car. Her ankle cries out for a long soak in warm water.

"Who doesn't like lemons?" Sunglasses says. He pushes the buttons for their respective floors.

"You can do a million things with apples. You can't do a million things with lemons. Fuck lemons. Fuck this day, too. I'm tired," Zandra says. She purged her usual diet of profanity all day, but no more.

"I should probably clear your room."

"No, you should probably fuck off to your room. That's enough for one day," Zandra says. "Go fall asleep to Lawrence Welk."

The elevator stops. Sunglasses bids Zandra a good night, and they both retire to their rooms for the evening.

Zandra tries the key card at the door to her room, and then tries again when the lock doesn't go click. No matter how she tries, the key card won't unlock the door.

Maybe I should've let Sunglasses deal with this after all.

Zandra presses her ear to the door, attempting to listen for signs of life on the other side. By design, the door isn't supposed leak the privacy of the room into the hallway, so she isn't able to pick up anything audible over her own labored breathing.

Shut up, lungs.

With her ear still to the door, she reaches down to try the handle without the key card. That's when she feels it. There's give in the handle if she presses forward into the room. It's not much, but it would explain why the lock doesn't react to the key card.

The door is already unlocked, and something on the other side is jamming it. A hard push might be just the trick.

Zandra backs away from the door. Her ankle won't allow for much of a running start or leverage against the jam, but she gives it her best shot by more or less falling into the door. The door relents enough for her to slip through the opening.

It's dark inside. Her hand slips the lawnmower knife free from its sheath as she hits the lights. The room is orderly and smells of citrus cleaner. Next to her feet is a wrinkled, white towel. It's the kind the cleaning staff stocks in the bathroom. From the way the towel is alone and positioned next to the bottom of the door, the source of the jam is obvious.

On first glance, Zandra supposes the towel fell off the carts the cleaning staff use to haul supplies from room to room. An accident. Shutting the door behind her and spearing the towel with her lawnmower knife, a different thought crosses Zandra's mind.

How would that be possible? The cleaning staff would've known that the door didn't shut the whole way. Besides, there isn't much clearance under the door. The towel would need to be stuffed underneath from the inside.

This looks more like someone wanted the appearance of a towel jamming a door on accident, rather than on purpose from the inside. Forcing a rough entry would be a great alarm bell that someone was coming into the room, rather than the quick click of the lock.

And that alarm bell just went off.

The lawnmower knife remains bare beneath the fluorescent light.

The bathroom is to Zandra's immediate right, and the sliding door at the entrance is open. She shuffles over and sticks her head inside. From the sink to the gray shower curtain spread across the tub, nothing looks out of order.

She heads into the bedroom area next. The only things out of place are what the cleaning staff put back together. There's even a chocolate mint on one of the pillows. Zandra drags her ankle to the pillow. She recognizes the brand, but she can't remember if the chocolate mints are standard for the room reset. Using the tip of the knife, she prods the candy onto the floor.

That's when she hears it.

It's coming from the bathroom. It's a sound that could be the pitter-patter drip of a leaky showerhead. Or something else. Something larger.

Those would have to be big drips.

"I hear you," Zandra says, now wishing Sunglasses were here to back her up. Maybe there's still time.

The phone.

Zandra picks up the receiver on the corded telephone resting on the nightstand. The sound in the bathroom is louder now. She dials the number for Sunglasses's room and listens for him to pick up.

Nothing. There's no sound. Not even a ring.

Zandra checks the cord that connects the phone to an outlet in the wall. It's unplugged. She'll have to move the nightstand in order to reach it.

The sound in the bathroom switches from dripping to stiff scraping. There's no mistaking it now. Someone is in the bathroom.

They're hiding behind the shower curtain.

Zandra tries to move the heavy nightstand, but it's awkward with the pain in her ankle. She manages to move it a few inches at a time with a thrust from her hip, but it's slow going.

She glances to the door. She could rush out into the hallway, but she'd have to pass the bathroom first.

"I've got help on the way, and a big knife," Zandra says toward the scraping sound as she tosses herself at the nightstand.

After making an opening, she's able to plate the cord along the tip of the knife. With a grunt and pop somewhere in her back, she manages to thread the cord into its outlet.

She brings the receiver to her ear and hears a dial tone. As soon as she presses the first number to call Sunglasses's room, the bathroom goes silent.

She presses the second number.

More silence.

Zandra tosses the receiver onto the bleached comforter on the bed. She slides one wobbly foot after the other toward the bathroom. Each breath is timed with the steps so she can hear the bathroom. The only noise is the low-grade hum from the lights.

She allows a random thought to enter her mind.

Is there an incandescent bulb somewhere in this room? LED bulbs don't hum. Or do they?

The hum grows louder. The light is right over her head now, guiding the last few steps to the bathroom, and it remains the only sound other than Zandra's muffled wheeze and footsteps.

Whoever this is, they blew their chance at making the first move. We both have the element of surprise now. So who blinks first?

Zandra gets as close to the entrance of the bathroom as possible without seeing inside. She can make out the sliver of the shower curtain, but nothing else.

"I see you," Zandra says, lying. The nerves in her bad ankle give up. She's numb from her toes to her knee.

No response.

It couldn't have been my imagination. And if it was, how fucked up is that? I'm standing here with a knife. I'm not some street fighter. What am I doing right now?

Zandra can't hold her breath for long, but she does anyway to listen. She lasts seven seconds before her lungs start knocking. She exhales.

"Well? You going to come out of there?" Zandra says.

Irritated at hearing no response yet again, she barges into the bathroom, lawnmower knife in hand. What's inside is surprising, to say the least.