By seven thirty on Tuesday morning, Nathaniel Whitmore stood at the high laminate counter in the lobby of the Strasburg Motel, sliding three hundred and ninety dollars in crisp twenty-dollar bills across the scratched surface.

The desk clerk, a thin man in a gray flannel shirt, swept the bills into his drawer, pressed a heavy metal hand stamp onto a white paper receipt, and handed over a brass key on a yellow plastic tag.

“Room fourteen is around the back, past the ice machine,” the clerk said, stamping the duplicate copy with a loud thud.

“The wall heater was turned on at six this morning, so the room’s warm.”