The woman who ran the place showed me where the cabin was. Lucille was slumped down in the seat.
I got the key to the place — cabin number 11. The woman from the office wished me an acid good-night and went back to the office. I helped Lucille into the cabin. She went to the bathroom and made noises of being ill. She came out and lay on the bed.
I sat on the edge of the bed, looking down at her.
“Turn out the lights,” she said, “they hurt my eyes.”
I turned out the lights. She lit a cigarette.
She said, “I guess I need air.”
“I’ll open the door.”
“No, I want to go outside.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“No, you stay here,” she said. “I’m not feeling well. I’m going to be unglamorous. Tell me, Donald, how are we registered?”