A woman wipes her sleeve against her forehead, looking up at the clock. Not even close to the end of shift. She shakes her head, plopping her mop back onto the tile floor. Earlier, she'd seen a man in here, but now the bed was stripped, the room empty, except for a few crumpled pudding cups, a half-drunk glass of water, and a yellow pad of paper.

The woman grumbled, wishing that she could get home to her new boyfriend, not cleaning up after those with more than enough knowledge on how to move a plastic spoon into a trash can. Yet, she leaned the mop against the wall, picked up the can herself, and in a fluid swoop, emptied the contents of the nightstand into the bin, all except for the yellow pad. For that, she picked up, running her fingers across the indented symbols, saddened by the fact that the handwriting was close to illegible. Whatever this note said, whatever it meant, whoever it was for, would never have the chance to read it.

The woman tore the sheet off the pad, folded it crisply into thirds, then placed it into the bin, sliding the pad back into the drawer of the nightstand. She picked up the mop and bucket, cleaning the trail behind her footprints, and turned off the light, closing the door behind her.