This hunt had taken it out of him, and needing a place to stay for the night, there was only one place to go

This hunt had taken it out of him, and needing a place to stay for the night, there was only one place to go. He drove straight there, not stopping for food or gas.

It was early in the morning when he pulled up to that old rickety building. The paint had faded, it was almost unreadable now. She had taken in a few others tonight too; their beat-up cars huddled around her wooden frame.

His bones creaked almost as loud as his car door as he made his way inside. A smoky haze, never truly dissipating, hovered through the air.

"I got a room in the back."

He nodded, took comfort that he could sleep in peace for the night, or at least what was left of it. He stumbled through the bar, past the few who were still playing pool, and into the hallway. The wall was his companion when he thought his legs were going to give out, guiding him towards the open door.

The wall gave way to the door, and there he collapsed on her bed. Sure, the mattress was a little lumpy and the room was tiny, no bigger than a jail cell, but the sheets were warm and clean – probably cleaner than motel sheets anyway.

It seemed like just minutes later when the sun beat through the dusty window, warming his face. Through the smell of cigarette smoke, he could make out the scent of bacon frying on her stove a few rooms away.

I'm lucky she's around.

What would hunters do without her when they needed a place to escape? Her walls, the Roadhouse, were their sanctuary.