At a motel lobby that smelled like coffee and bleach, Zion tried to treat the scene as ordinary, as if ordinariness could be chosen. The ticket stub offered a story anyone could accept, which made it tempting. The air tasted faintly of metal; even the air seemed to wait for a decision. Zion checked the door every minute, as if time might walk in. Zion told himself the moment was simple, then noticed how his hands refused to be still. Each tick of the clock sounded like a verdict, and Zion kept listening anyway. What mattered wasn't the choice, Zion realized, but the reason he kept rewriting it.