At 2:17, the hotel phone rang.
“Room service,” said a voice.
“I didn’t order anything.”
“You ordered a second chance.”
Gareth sat up. The room was empty except for the moon pressed flat against the window. “I think you have the wrong room.”
“You’re in 214.”
He looked at the door. He had checked the brass number twice when he arrived. It was 214.
“What does it cost?” he asked.
“The same as the first one.”
He thought of his sister on the station platform, coat buttoned to her chin, asking if he would come to the hospital. He had said he was busy. He had been busy. The distinction had held for six years.
“Send it up,” he said.
There was a knock.
Gareth opened the door. No tray, no hallway, no hotel carpet. Only a small white stair descending into a darkness that smelled of rain.
He went down. At the bottom, his sister stood under the station clock. She looked exactly as tired as he remembered.
“You’re late,” she said.
“I know.”
Moonlight lay across the hotel carpet. The stair was gone.
On the floor lay a hotel receipt. Under “Room service” someone had written: Not repeatable.
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