After ten hours of storm, a bed was a bed. In Sonora, one learned that the desert forgave few things, except for three businesses that seemed blessed by God and protected by the devil. Gas stations, motels, and immigration. The first two at least didn't usually leave you stranded in the desert.

A coyote with a GPS bought in Tepito and hundreds of kilometers of gulf separated them from the American dream. Sleeping one more night wasn't going to change anyone's destiny. The group counted their pennies, heading towards the only truck stop motel with its lights on.

The counter had a bell, an ashtray filled to the point of looking like a funeral urn, and an image of the Virgin of Guadalupe taped on. An old woman, small and wrapped in a wool shawl, received them, even though the Sonora heat was enough to fry an egg on a truck's hood. Nine white ponytails swept the floor behind the counter like living brooms, betraying her from behind the counter. Having left behind so many brothels, roadside hotels, and roadside businesses where the question wasn't, "What do you sell?", but, "Why is this still open?", this didn't even manage to raise an eyebrow.

>Room for how many, my dears?

She was selecting bunches of keys for each group that economized by sharing rooms and, in the worst case, a bed. Next in line, it was your turn.

>Name
>Female or male
>Story
>Favorite thing (min. 1 thing)