Angered beyond all belief, he opened the boot and searched for a container. His search, however, came up empty too, since the only thing in the boot was his army-green duffle bag. He slammed the boot, another burst of anger welling up from his feet only to be expelled via his mouth in the form of the foulest of expletives. Now what? He thought with a pang of helplessness. Sighing and stifling another outburst, he raked his fingers through his cropped wheat-coloured hair and stepped into the middle of the road. No traffic, no houses, no nothing for miles and miles. No one to bother him and no one to help him.

A light breeze kicked up from the south and plastered his sweaty white vest to his spine, sending a shiver through tired limbs. He looked toward the sky, as if a service station would fall from it to offer him fuel and perhaps an oil change. But no such luck would befall the traveller, so he decided to sit and wait until a passer-by came along. He opened the driver’s door and plopped down in the seat to wait. He waited ten minutes, then twenty; he beat out a rhythm on the steering wheel and waited another fifteen.

He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, willing himself not to fall asleep. When he opened them again, he noticed a faint twinkling in the distance. A car! He thought excitedly, someone, finally! He opened the door, got out and stood by the road. He waited and something twinkled again, but a car it was not, he realised with mild surprise. A town! There was a town down there; that meant they must have a service station! He opened the boot and pulled out his duffle bag, just in case. He looked to the north and saw the light still twinkling merrily, beckoning to him. He rolled up the windows, locked the doors and started off in the direction of the light, his bag slung over his shoulder.

***

By the time he made it into town, it was nearing one o’clock in the morning and everything was closed. He hadn’t seen a single car since he had left his own back on that road. But as he sat there in the street, resting for a moment, looking at the quiet town, he noticed an ugly moth-coloured Dutch-style house that was probably a grand domiciliary in its day. Now it seemed abandoned and deserted, sitting in a trashy vacant lot. A light came on upstairs in the old house, and then another one, and one downstairs, until all the lights glistened brightly, casting long shadows into the street.

Maybe they have a spare container I could borrow, he thought, as he pulled himself to his feet, hefted his bag and trudged with renewed determination down Maple Street. When he reached the crooked gate of the old Dutch house, his steps faltered as he stared up at the brick-pile somebody called home. It seemed much taller than it did on the street corner a few blocks away. Now it seemed like something from an old-time Frankenstein movie. The only thing the old house didn’t have was a graveyard behind it. Or maybe it did?

Deciding he would look around town for somewhere more suitable to rest his weary appendages, he turned on his heel, but he only made it a few paces before he heard a voice call out, “Hello? Sonny? Can I help you?”

He whirled around and looked up at an elderly woman standing on the front porch of the old house. “Uh…” he started to say. Had she seen him? He hadn’t seen anyone in the windows…

“Can I help you?” she asked again. The old woman squinted at him through her blue-framed bifocals and shivered delicately in the cold desert night.

“Well ma’am…” he began, taking a step closer to the front gate, “my car ran out of petrol, and I’m expected in Oudtshoorn tonight and I was wondering if you knew of any place where I could find a service station that’s still open this late.”

Her hair glistened like polished silver in the moonlight that now engulfed both of them in its embrace. Somehow the old house didn’t look so creepy with this sweet old woman standing on the porch.

“Oh!” she said, blinking behind her glasses. “You had your bag, I thought you were looking for a room!” she pointed to a sign on the front lawn, a sign the young traveller had missed. It was the same moth-colour as the rest of the house, only with red lettering that read “Windmill Hotel”.

***

Tell us: if you were Errol, would you take the room?