From "The Werecat Chronicles" by Sally Bosco

A strong feeling made me pull off the highway and down the main road of a tiny town that looked more like a ghost town than a living community.

Driving further down the street, I came to a motel right out of an Edward Hopper painting.  I pulled into one of many vacant parking spaces and walked into the office feeling like a zombie. The man behind the counter gave me a momentarily suspicious look. He probably thought I was awfully young to be traveling alone.  He was right.  But when I pulled a roll of money out of my backpack, he smiled, said, “Thank you, miss,” put the cash into his old-fashioned register, and handed me the key.  Room number three.

Predictably the room reeked of mildew. I looked around at the stained carpet, the corroded air conditioner, towels thin as slices of ginger and wondered.  Was this the place where I was going to die?  A cheap motel room?

I pulled back the bed covers and collapsed onto the sheets.  The clock radio said 11:50.  In ten minutes I’d be dead.