The hotel is far from the nicest place in town, but it's the only one with a reasonably priced room available on such short notice. As a bonus, it's within easy walking distance of the garage, which saves us the trouble of calling a ride.

Hazel checks us in while I wait awkwardly outside, picking through the contents of my canvas messenger bag—or 'man purse,' as Lana calls it—doing a quick inventory of what I have on hand.

In total, I've got my prescriptions (thank God), my wallet, my phone, $9.27 in 'emergency' cash (down from an original $20 after lunch), my field journal and pencil, my reading glasses and a lens cleaning rag, ChapStick, eye drops, and breath mints. What I don't have is most of what's needed for an overnight stay—namely, a change of clothes and a toothbrush.

Obviously, I can survive for one night without those things, but for some reason, the thought of sleeping in my dusty, sweaty things is giving me anxiety. When Hazel rejoins me, room key in hand, he picks up on it.

"What's the matter? You look all worried again."

"I do?" I didn't think I was that easy to read.

"Yeah." Hazel pokes a finger between my eyebrows. "You get a little line right here, and one side of your mouth does that little twitchy thing. It's cute, except I know it means something's wrong. So, what is it?"

I tell him; he laughs. "Is that all? We can buy that stuff."

I fidget and look away. $9.27 won't go far, and Hazel will probably want to get dinner, too. I've got the reloadable debit card my dad uses to send me my monthly allowance, but it has a grand total of $0.51 on it.

"I don't have much cash on me," I say.

"So?" Hazel pulls out his wallet and waggles it. "Dad's credit card to the rescue! He said we can buy what we need—within reason, I bet I can get us everything for under $10."

"In this economy?" I raise my brows at him.

"Sure! Tell you what, if I can't, then you get to pick what we do later, and if I can, then I get to pick."

Fairly confident that he won't succeed, I laugh. "Fine. Knock yourself out."

Hazel doesn't strike me as the kind of guy who knows his way around a store, but—once again—he surprises me. We walk a few blocks to a small budget outlet, and come out with a pack of cheap underwear, two basic t-shirts from the clearance rack, two toothbrushes, and a travel-sized tube of toothpaste. At the self checkout machine, it all rings up for $9.64, including tax.

I shake my head. "You got lucky."

He winks at me as we pass through the automatic doors, leaving the cool, air conditioned store for the lingering evening heat. "Not yet I haven't."

Suddenly much too warm, I look away.

Hazel bumps my arm. "Hey, don't worry. I'll behave, I promise."

The silence gets awkward as we traverse the parking lot and wait at the crosswalk. Hazel speaks into it.

"The truth is, I got really good at shopping on a budget after my mom got sick," he says, bags swinging from the crook of his arm as he presses the crossing button.

Once more uncertain what to say, I squint against the glare of the setting sun, which washes everything a dusty orange as it sinks into a bank of summer haze. "I thought you were just a kid, then? Where was your dad?"

The light changes, and Hazel sets off across the street without answering. I jog after him, a little out of breath when we reach the other side. He keeps walking, his long-legged stride faster than I can match easily, and I lag behind. Eventually, in front of the hotel, he stops and waits for me to catch up.

"Sorry," he says, scuffing his shoe on the edge of the sidewalk. "Talking about it still makes me mad. When I was a kid, it made me so mad, I wanted to run, and run, and never stop running. Guess it still does."

I hunch my shoulders defensively. "I didn't mean to bring it up."

He shrugs. "Nah, that was me, not you. Let's find our room and get settled. You don't wanna listen to my childhood trauma, anyway."

He turns away. Impulsively, I grab his arm. "I do. I mean, I want to listen to whatever you want to tell me. If you do want to tell me, I mean. Obviously, you don't have to. I'm gonna shut up now."

Wincing, I release him, but he only laughs, his unsettled mood shifting like a spring breeze, and takes my hand. "Come on," he says, tugging me along. "We're in 108. It's in the inner courtyard, by the pool."

He leads the way, holding my hand the whole time. A number of other guests are enjoying the pool, including at least two sizable families with a dozen kids between them, but they're too busy screaming and splashing each other to pay us any mind.

Still, I imagine that eyes follow us the whole way to our door, and by the time we get there, my hand is sweaty in Hazel's grasp. He finally lets me go to get the card key out of his wallet, and then we're inside.

Hazel flicks on the light switch as the musty smell of a hotel carpet and industrial cleaning agents greet us with a wash of tepid air. There's a window facing the pool on the same wall as the door, a small table, a TV on a dresser with an inset minifridge, a door on the far wall which I assume leads to a bathroom, and a single queen-sized bed.

I stop and stare at it, and state the obvious.

"There's only one bed."

"It's all they had," Hazel says, tossing the shopping bags onto it. "There's plenty of room. Look."

He flops back on the mattress to demonstrate. At my continued hesitation, he frowns.

"We can build a pillow wall, if you want. Or I can sleep on the floor. Seriously, Charlie—I'm horny as hell, but I'm not a creep. I'm not gonna jump you or anything."

"I know," I say, recovering at last and setting my bag on the chair. "I was just surprised. I'm fine sharing. If anyone should sleep on the floor, it's me. I think I've inconvenienced you enough already."

Oddly, Hazel seems confused. "What do you mean?"

I make a face. "Are you kidding? You gave up a whole day to drive me into town, you came to my appointment, waited with me at the pharmacy, had to deal with car trouble and spring for a hotel. You've been taking care of me all day."

"I'm also the reason you ran off into the hills and had an asthma attack. Well, my dad, too, but mostly me."

"I think we're even, then."

He grins. "So, what do you wanna do? Not every day you get a surprise vacation."

I return his smile, though a little tiredly. "You get to pick, remember? You won the shopping bet."

He studies me carefully, and I get the feeling no detail escapes his scrutiny. "Okay. What I'd like to do is... take a shower, order a pizza, and watch TV. How does that sound?"

Surprised once again, it takes me a moment to find my voice. I'd expected Hazel to list a handful of exhausting activities—I don't think I've ever seen him really tired—and if he was with someone else, maybe he would have. Instead, he's with me, and so he'd named the things that I would like to do, and in the correct order, because he can tell that I'm tired.

"That sounds... perfect." Shyly, I add, "Thank you."

He shrugs as he rustles in the shopping bags, extracting the packets of underwear and shirts, tearing them open and tossing me one of each. "You check out the shower first. I'll scope the pizza scene. What toppings do you like?"

"Oh, um... pretty much anything except weird stuff like anchovies. I'm easy."

Hazel winks. "I wish."

I flip him off. "Just don't order anything that makes you fart. We have to share a bed, remember."

"Double pepperoni and sausage with extra cheese, it is," he says, and grins cheekily.

Rolling my eyes, I retreat to the bathroom and shut the door.

The bath is tiny and cramped, and the tile could be cleaner, but the water is hot, at least. After almost three weeks without a proper shower, I take my time, washing my hair twice to get the sand and grit from my curls. When I finally emerge, dressed in gray cotton boxer briefs and a white shirt that fits me like a loose dress (XXL was the only size left on the bargain rack), Hazel looks up from his phone and bursts into fits of giggles, falling over on the bed.

"What?"

"It looks like a... like a..." He waves his hand helplessly. "Like those thingies the Romans wore."

"Togas?"

He nods, still laughing hysterically. "You look like a... like an..."

"Like an idiot?" I suggest, a little more snappishly than I intend, and turn away to set my folded clothes on the dresser.

Hazel's laughter subsides, and I hear the bed creak. A moment later, he stands at my back. I turn and find him very close, mischief and humor lighting his blue eyes.

"Like an angel. With those curls, all that's missing is the harp and wings." His gaze drops to the base of my throat, where the shirt's loose collar shows off my clavicles, and he swallows visibly. "You're gorgeous, is what I meant."

He leans closer. I find myself transfixed, like a small object caught by his star's gravity, drawn ineluctably to fiery doom.

His phone pings. Instantly distracted, he checks it.

"Pizza's here! Damn, that was fast. Be right back!" He grabs his wallet and bolts from the room, slamming the door in his wake.

After a moment, I remember to breathe.

I believe Hazel: I believe he won't do anything I don't want him to do. The problem is, he's very perceptive, and what I want him to do might very well be 'me.'

Which is a problem.

Letting my head fall back on my neck, I swear at the water-stained ceiling.

"Fuck."

It's going to be a long night.