Hockey mask and blade flash with Friday lettering

The sign on the Coyote Rest has lost its last F, so it now reads RIDAY ROOMS, which Mr Okafor says is the sort of joke that keeps the place honest. You asked whether the new night man has settled in. He has. He sits behind the desk with a crate of lemon drops and a pale hockey mask propped on the ledge beside the register, and he will not let the cleaners move it. Nobody argues. The mask has a crack along one cheek that someone has painted over in silver, and it watches the car park better than the camera does.

Last Thursday a couple from Tucson pulled in at two in the morning, arguing about a map. The husband wanted to keep driving. The wife said the road ahead had nothing on it but dust and a sign for a windmill. The night man slid the mask on, slowly, the way you'd put on reading glasses, and handed them a key with a brass tag shaped like a long, flat blade. They stayed. Nobody got hurt. They left at seven with a bag of lemon drops, and the wife bought a postcard of the windmill, which I thought was funny.

The blade on the wall behind him is long and very clean. He polishes it on Fridays, and every Friday he hums the same two notes, then says them out loud, "It's Friday, Friday," as if he is reminding the desert of the calendar. I asked him once whether it was a warning or a joke. He said both things get you through the night.

Write soon. The lemon drops are on me.

Love, Ruth