Her dark hair was streaked with gray and pulled into a simple braid, and she wore the maroon vest of housekeeping.

Her nametag read: Bea.

She took one look — the sleeping child, the bent rose stems, the exhaustion in the man’s shoulders, the expressions on the two receptionists — and set the towels down on a luggage cart.

“Excuse me, sir,” she said, stepping closer.

“Is everything all right?”

“My reservation doesn’t seem to be showing up in their system.”