I wind my way out of the office and turn left, following the building’s rough stucco wall with my free hand. The ice machine hums exactly where he said it would be. I keep going, counting my steps, listening for the vending area.
But something’s off. The vending machines should be here by now, shouldn’t they? He did say hang a left, didn’t he? But instead, I hear music, tinny and muffled, like it’s coming through thin walls. My fingers find a door handle where there shouldn’t be one yet.
The unexpected voice makes me jump as the door is ripped open from inside. It’s male, big from the sound of it, and he’s crowding close enough that I can smell his breakfast on his breath, cheesy eggs and hot sauce.
“I’m looking for Room Seven,” I say, taking a step back.
“Oh, sure you are, sweetheart.
