Under the service sign stretched a well-worn wooden check-in counter, with a tiny clapper bell and a ledger on top with an old fashioned cabinet of mail/key cubicles; lucky to find a place open and with electricity in a storm where winds snapped tree trunks and sheet-bucket rain blinded.
An elderly gentleman shuffled out of the darkness beyond the service sign, “Miss Cavanaugh, we readied your room just in case – with this weather and all – but I see a mistake has been made – wrong reservation;” closing the ledger, he shuffled back into the darkness.
I hurt, blood and rain ran down my face blinding me; those wonking in and out sirens were headed this way; so Jonathon, not stirring beside me, must be the right reservation in the ledger under the service sign.
Once again, I stretched the meaning of a sentence so there would only “appear” to be three. I am quite the little rebel at times.