A man steps into the circle thrown by the light on the pole in the parking lot. He is about thirty years old and wears a threadbare but clean black t-shirt over faded black Carhartts, rivets glinting in the light. They cover his brown harness boots showing the brown of the leather under a layer of dust. He wears no belt but is well-enough proportioned to not need one. Not overly developed but lean and wiry. His hair is a wavy mass of brown and gold, as if it has been a year since it was cut, and falls just into his eyes and covers his ears. He carries his shoulders like a boxer on the ropes in the 11th round and moves with care. He carries a canvas bag in his left hand. It looks like a big pillowcase but darker, a stained canvas with a sisal drawstring. A moth circles the light, high above his head. The shadow of the little flying thing catches his eye and he starts - almost as if shocked - and quickly takes two steps back out of the light. He runs his right hand through his hair, pushing it back from his eyes in a reflex as he looks around the parking lot. His right hand falls back to his side. He stands motionless. The canvas bag writhes once, slowly.

Across the parking lot, a car rolls in with no lights, the gravel crunching under the tires. It stops about a hundred feet from where the man is standing, the pool of light between the car and him. A dim light comes on inside the car and the sound of a worn and rusty hinge supporting a heavy door echoes into the still air. The door is pushed towards closed but not fully - the interior light flickers every few seconds as the door settles on the switch and the car oscillates and becomes motionless again. The smaller figure of the driver is in contrast to the man holding the bag. Smaller. Tentative but holding back a nervous energy that propels a course to the man. A young woman.
She steps into the light and reacts the same way as the man did. She turns to circumnavigate the perimeter counter-clockwise and stops in front of him. His shoulders rise and fall with a sigh. She extends her left hand as if to touch him and his face tightens for an instant. Her hand falls back to her side. They stand only a foot apart just looking at each other. She breaks her gaze and looks at the bag. He extends it towards her.
"Be careful, it's heavy," he says.
"Oh," she says as she strains under the weight. "Do I... you know,..."
"No. She's been fed. Good for a month. Give or take."
"Okay." She is holding the bag in both hands like a matron holds a purse in front of her crotch - with both hands. The bag writhes again. The young woman looks down at it for a long moment, transfixed.
"Okay," she says again. Another long pause. "I, ah, I brought you something. It's in the car."

The two walk around the pool of light towards the car, the young woman opens the back door on the driver's side and puts the bag down on the back seat. The bag undulates very slowly and then stops. Maybe a hair of movement more.
"No. I can't do that," she says. She goes around the other side and opens the front door and lifts a casserole dish covered in tinfoil off of the front seat. She carries it to him with her thumbs trapping an envelope on top of the foil. "I brought you some food. And some other stuff." She thrusts it at him and for a moment it looks as though he wont take it from her. He does. She picks up the bag from the back seat and carries it around the other side and puts it in the front seat and closes the door very carefully. She comes back to stand in front of the man. They hover for a few moments. Then she lunges forward and kisses him once on the lips and darts back to the car, gets in and starts the engine. Not looking at him. She drives carefully out of the parking lot and turns her headlights on just as she makes the highway.
He follows her with his eyes.
When she is out of sight, he turns and carries the casserole into the darkness.
In his room he puts the casserole in the little fridge. Then sits down and looks at the envelope. He inhales the scent on the stationary and sits motionless for a few minutes, hands calm in his lap, gently cradling the envelope. He inhales and opens the envelope and examines the contents. Five twenties and three Tarot cards wrapped in two folded pages torn from a notebook. The pages are covered in writing. He lines the bills and the cards up on the table and unfolds the letter. He reads for a while and then separates the cards according to what he has read: the King of Swords on the left, then The Chariot, and finally the Four of Cups on the right. He sits quietly, staring at the cards. An hour later a power failure darkens the motel. He doesn't move from his seat.