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Wrong All Along

by Miles Rooker
Chapter 2
Logs, letters, songs,
I wrote it all down
so I wouldn’t be the crazy one.

Room 17.
Word around town.
Out of order. Out of sight.
That’s what they told us to say.

So today, when a drifter wandered in
smelling like rain and bus seats,
and asked for Seventeen like it was nothing,
my body remembered before my mouth did.

I kept my tone polite.
That trained smile you can wear like armor.
“Sorry. We can’t do that room.”

He blinked.
Not confused. Not angry.
Like I’d misread the script.

He leaned closer to the counter and said,
calm as a man checking the weather,
“The room is currently listed as vacant.”

Listed.
That word hit harder than the request.

I told him what happened.
I told him what I saw.
Police tape. Sheets that didn’t look like sheets anymore.
A door that learned how to swallow people
and act innocent afterward.

He stared at me like I’d invented it
to charge him more money.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.
And the worst part was how easy it sounded.
Like the truth had never been spoken here once.

He asked for my manager.

Of course he did.

My boss didn’t even hesitate.
No frown. No pause.
Just the same voice we use for ice machines
and late checkouts.

“There’s never been an issue with Room 17,” he said.
“No incident. No loss. It’s available.”

No loss.
Like you can misplace a person
and call it a clerical error.

I went back to my desk.
I didn’t argue.
I didn’t shout.
I just needed to touch something real.

The key rack was where I left it,
the tags lined up neat,
the world behaving in small, obedient ways.

And there, hanging like a punchline,
were keys labeled 17.

Not one.

Not two.

Three.