The hotel room smells like stale air and cheap carpet. Outside, the sun is still bruising the sky orange — inside, it might as well be worse. The AC unit on the wall clicks uselessly every few minutes. A joke. Both beds are damp. The single ceiling fan just stirs the heat around like soup. Aunt Deb is stretched out on her bed, her black-painted nails fanning at her face, that old white t-shirt clinging to every curve. She hasn't said anything awkward yet. But the room is very small. And neither of you has looked at the ceiling this hard in your entire life.