Chapter 7 - Shift Log at 3 AM
The housekeeping office smelled like bleach and old coffee. The fluorescent tube over the desk buzzed and flickered, turning everything too white after the dim bedroom. My eyes burned when I walked in.
Dana didn't look up right away. She was late forties, hair cut short, reading glasses on a chain, a clipboard in front of her and the night log sheet half filled in black ink. Her pen stopped on an empty line.
She tapped it twice.
"Chloe. Room checks. Ten to eleven. You're blank."
I stood in the doorway with my shoes back on and my uniform straightened as best I could. My hair was still pulled back, damp at the temples. My hands felt cold. I could feel the water glass long gone from my hands, but my palms still held that shape.
I stepped inside and pulled the door almost shut behind me. The hallway air cut off. The office was small — metal lockers on one wall, a washer humming behind a second door, a corkboard with the schedule and a note about missing towels.
"I got sick," I said.
Dana looked up now. Her eyes moved over my face, my flushed cheeks I couldn't hide. She didn't soften.
"Sick how?"
My stomach turned. I forced myself to keep looking at the log instead of her.
"Dizzy. In the bathroom on three. I threw up. I had to sit on the tile for a while until it passed."
That part was true enough I could say it steady. The cold floor. The spinning. The rest — his bed, white sheets, his voice telling me to sit — I locked down behind my teeth.
Dana wrote something in the margin. Bathroom — ill. Her handwriting was small and hard.
"You didn't radio."
"I left my radio on the cart," I said. "I'm sorry. It happened fast."
She leaned back in the chair. It creaked. The fluorescent light made the lines around her mouth deeper.
"Cart was found outside 304 with bags half-tied. Marta covered your rooms and hers. She's behind now too. You know what that looks like on paper?"
My chest tightened. Marta covering for me. Of course she had. And now we were both behind.
"It was my fault," I said quickly. "Don't put her down for it. I'll redo the rooms. I'll stay over. Just tell me which ones."
Dana studied me for a long second. She took off her glasses and let them hang.
"Chloe, I got a complaint flag already from the day lead about turnaround times this week. One more complaint and they cut crew hours. You understand? They don't cut rooms. They cut people."
Please don't fire anyone. My own voice from the bed rang in my ears. I swallowed.
"I understand."
She slid the log sheet toward me and set the pen on top of it.
"Write what you missed. Times as close as you can."
I sat down in the plastic chair across from her. My legs felt shaky going down. I picked up the pen. The paper swam for a second — rows of room numbers, initials, check marks. The gap from 10:15 to 11:20 was empty white.
I wrote: 10:15 — bathroom sick. 10:30 — still sick. 11:00 — returned to cart. My handwriting looked childish next to hers.
"Is that accurate?" she asked.
It wasn't. I didn't know exactly when I'd fallen or when he'd carried me. I didn't know how long I'd slept in OBJECT_1 with my shoes off. But I couldn't write that. I kept the pen moving.
"As close as I can get," I said. "I wasn't watching the clock."
Dana watched my hand. "Were you with anyone?"
The question hit low in my stomach. I stopped writing.
"No," I said. It came out too fast. I made myself add, quieter, "I was alone in the bathroom."
She held my eyes. I tried not to blink, not to breathe too loud. The washer thumped into a spin cycle behind the wall.
"You sure? Because if there's something I need to log for incident — a guest, a fall, anything — now's the time. Once I sign this, it's official."
My throat burned. I thought of Mr. Russo reclining against the headboard, calm, holding out the glass. You looked exhausted. I thought of what would happen if I said his name in this bright little office. Investigation. Cameras. Marta sent home. Me sent home.
"I'm sure," I said. "It was just me being sick. I'll take the write-up."
Dana sighed through her nose. She pulled a pink form from under the clipboard — Delayed Service / Staff Incident. She filled in the date, my name, my ID number from memory.
"I'm marking delay due to illness, failure to radio, rooms reassigned to Marta Ellis. Verbal warning plus written. You sign, you stay till the floor's clear."
She turned the form around. The words failure to notify glared up at me.
"And Chloe," she said, not unkindly, but firm, "you throw up again on shift, you go home. No hero stuff. I can't have gaps I can't explain."
I signed. My signature shook a little at the end.
"I'll redo 304 and 306 now," I said. "Marta shouldn't have to carry them."
Dana signed under mine with a quick stroke and tore off my copy. The pink paper was thin and warm from the desk.
"She's on three with fresh linens. Go help her finish first. Then you both check out with me."
I stood. The chair legs scraped the tile. I folded the pink slip and pushed it deep into my pants pocket. My job felt thinner already, like that paper.
At the door I stopped. "Dana — please don't cut her hours over this. It was on me."
May you like
She capped her pen. "Then don't give me another gap, Chloe. I can only cover so much."
I nodded and slipped back into the hallway, the fluorescent buzz cutting off behind me. The dim carpet and low sconces felt almost like relief. My secret was still mine. But now it was written down as something else, in black ink, with my name under it.
