February Fever by Jess Lourey Page B

twice.” I managed to juggle seven of the teensy bottles.
    And then we made our way to Room 2.
    And then Mrs. Berns slid open the door.
    â€œIt’s bigger than a breadbox,” I offered helpfully.
    She turned to glare at me. The room wouldn’t even be considered big for a closet. About five feet wide, it contained a single window that displayed the industrial park of Detroit Lakes. Over the window a bunk was attached with a thin mattress, pillow, and blanket resting on it. Below that were two reclining chairs similar to those found in coach class. They faced each other, the foot rests almost touching. A table was attached to the bottom sash of the window.
    A bathroom the size of a cupboard was to our left, and to the right, a storage cupboard half that size.
    â€œI can’t sleep here,” Mrs. Berns said. “Jesus H. Christ, Superman couldn’t even change in here.”
    I let out a long breath. “I love it.”
    I wasn’t lying. The room appeared cozy and safe with a clear exit. What more did a person need? Sure, maybe the fact that I’d barely survived a serial killer’s attack in December and had taken up sleeping under my bed since had colored my perspective, but dang if I didn’t want to marry this room. Hanging out here would be like playing fort with your best friend crossed with all the greatest parts of a road trip and none of the downsides. A wide grin cracked my face.
    I opened the storage cupboard and tried to slide my small suitcase in. It wouldn’t fit. Undeterred, I plunked it onto the overhead bunk. I took Mrs. Berns’s luggage and did the same, and then with only a little huffing and elbow grease, maneuvered our small carry-ons into the cupboard. There also wasn’t room for our winter coats, so I flung those over the backs of the reclining chairs, along with our purses.
    â€œAfter you,” I said, indicating the chairs. I had to suck in to give her enough room to pass. She dug an elbow into my stomach before plopping into a chair.
    â€œWe better get started on the drinking,” she said, pulling a miniature bottle from her tracksuit. “Take five of these to even catch a buzz.”
    Great plan. “One bottle each, and then we explore!”
    She grimaced before taking a deep swallow. “Why are you so excited? This room is like a sardine tin, and we’ll be as lucky as Larry if it smells that good come Portland.”
    I opened my own bottle, savoring the tiny pop as the miniature cork flew to the ceiling and ricocheted off the walls. “It’s an adventure! We can try new food while the world whisks by, we can play hide-and-go-seek, and”—my heartbeat picked up—“think of the people watching!” Train travel was right up my alley. Who knew?
    I was taking another swig when a commotion erupted outside our door. It sounded like a scuffle, followed by a shrill voice.
    â€œYou didn’t clean my room? Why not?”
    I peeked out. Two people were crowded in the aisle. The high- pitched speaker was Ms. Susan Wrenshall in her faux fur coat, clutching her pink purse. She was cornering the porter Mrs. Berns had given a talking to. The man appeared resigned to his fate, so I guessed this wasn’t his first rodeo with Ms. Wrenshall.
    I cleared my throat. “It looks like we’re going to be neighbors.”
    I indicated the open door of the room they were standing in front of. I didn’t want to focus Ms. Wrenshall’s frustration on me, but I’d found that distracting a person having a hissy fit was often the best way to defuse a situation. Maybe I could divert her long enough for the porter to escape. He wasn’t my best friend, but I’d worked my share of service jobs and recognized a soul in need when I saw one.
    Her jaw clenched, and she looked unwilling to give up haranguing the cornered man. I didn’t move. She finally had to acknowledge me.
    â€œHe said he’d