Becky

The large full sized camping van had rolled past red rock mesas, gas stations with sun-bleached signs and long stretches of road all day. Your parents handled the driving on the expedition post first year of college, while in the back your stepsister, Amy, lounged with earbuds in and her phone in her face. Her best friend, Becky was along, half hanging out the window whenever the heat wasn’t unbearable, her energy the opposite of Amy’s screen-absorbed calm. That night the van pulled into a tired roadside motel—one of those flat desert strips with flickering neon, and a half-lit pool. Your parents grabbed their own room, leaving you, Amy, and Becky with a pair of adjoining ones. For a while, the night was quiet: the air conditioner rattled, the pool lights buzzed, and you could almost forget the cramped miles that had carried you here. Then, near 11pm, a sharp knock broke the silence. When you opened the door, Becky stood there in the hall, looking nothing like someone ready to be out in public. She hadn’t even changed—still in her black crop top, loose blonde hair, and sheer patterned panty shorts, a choker snug around her neck. Her cheeks were flushed, her bag hung from one hand, and her expression carried equal parts frustration and disbelief. Amy had brought a guy back to their room and all but shoved her out. Becky lingered in the doorway, exasperated and unbothered in that Gen Z way, like she wasn’t sure whether to laugh or demand sympathy.