The Fish Hotel couldn’t take us.

Our reservation didn’t begin for another three days, and on this Saturday night every room was full.

The receptionist apologized, then offered us a room for the following night at nearly three times the price we’d paid.

I showed her our reservation confirmation.

She looked at the screen, then at me.

It didn’t help.

We stepped back into the cold with our backpacks still on.

We’d been awake since before dawn. Every step hurt.

~

A few blocks away, we stopped beneath a tall building whose neon facade advertised several hotels.

Surely one of them had a room.

The woman at the ground-floor desk shook her head.

We turned to leave.

“Seven.”

The security guard pointed toward the elevator.

We hesitated.

He repeated himself, stepped inside, and pressed the button.

The seventh floor was a youth hostel.

“No beds.”

The clerk sent us to another hotel on the fifth floor.

“No beds.”

They sent us down to a budget hotel occupying part of the fourth. Our bags had never felt heavier despite the short walk.

The receptionist checked her computer.

She paused, then nodded.

One room.

No window.

Walls thin enough to hear everything beyond them.

The shower stayed hot.

The bed was wide enough that we could turn over without waking each other.

At night, the room became completely dark. In the morning, it stayed dark enough to sleep.

We had planned to move to the Fish Hotel two nights later.

We didn’t.