Tuesday: "Rock a bye baby on the tree top, when the wind blows the cradle will rock."
Tuesday: "When the bough breaks the cradle will fall and down will come baby cradle and all."
Tuesday: Oh, you're awake, my sweet child.
Tuesday: I'm terribly sorry about all this. Are you alright?
Barbara: cough I—I'm ok.
She struggles to sit up from Tuesday's lap. Realizing her headphones are no longer in her ears, she hastily puts them back in.
Only when the familiar country music plays does the itch in her throat begin to soothe.
Barbara: When did you wake up? What happened in this room?
Barbara: Do you know a girl named Bonnette?
Tuesday: My, my. You're like a little question machine up and running again.
Tuesday: Bonnette. A very sweet name, but it doesn't ring a bell.
Tuesday: As for the room—what could happen in such a safe and quiet place? You can go ahead and rest here until you're fully recovered.
Tuesday: Although I must apologize. There's no desk here. After all, we're just a small motel in the country. Our facilities are rather limited.
Barbara: And I need to apologize for the coming accusation—what you're doing to me now is called false imprisonment.
Tuesday: Ouch. I took good care of you when you passed out and made sure you had sweet dreams. How could you accuse me of something like that?
Tuesday lowers her head to fix the hem of her skirt. It seems to be a habitual action.
Barbara: That was a nightmare, not a dream.
Tuesday: All the more reason to get some proper rest, don't you think?
Tuesday: In fact, I envy children like you. I never dream, you see.
Barbara: But, wasn't that your dream?
Tuesday doesn't answer her muttered words.
Tuesday: Well, I enjoyed our little chat, but I've got work to do.
Tuesday: I should get back to the highway to greet that guest—ah, and I'd better buy some groceries while I'm out, too.
Tuesday: Got to make sure I have enough food for your meal later, don't I, little one?
Barbara: Please, wait. I have one last question.
She points at the crib in the center of the room.
Barbara: This room doesn't seem like a nursery at all. The crib's empty, and you're not carrying that "baby" in your arms right now. So ...
Barbara: So there really isn't a baby in your arms. What is it then? A corpse? Or a ghost?
Barbara: When I first arrived, someone mentioned a disappearance here.
Barbara: There are too many weird things happening here: your "baby," missing guests, bizarre rooms ...
She wants to ask what's next.
Tuesday: ...
Tuesday: You're a sharp one. I like you. Most people are afraid to even ask, you see.
Her cheeks flush again. Somehow, it doesn't bring any sense of vigor or health to her face; instead, it adds a fragile tone to her pale skin.
She looks like a silver table knife that could bend at any time.
Tuesday: Ah, you've broken my heart.
Tuesday: But, I'll answer your question. You can't just punish your children every time they make a mistake.
Tuesday: Because one day they'll get used to it, and it won't frighten them anymore.
Tuesday: The truth is, the baby in the swaddling cloth is my youngest and most beloved child. It doesn't want to see you—gets jealous, you see.
Tuesday: That's why it's best to separate you two.
As she says this, she makes her way to the door and closes it with a gentle click.
Barbara: I suppose that answer will have to do.
Barbara: Well, interviews rarely go as planned now, do they?
She checks around the room, trying to find her spider friend.
She squints as she tries to spot the little thing. The good news is, she has plenty of time to search.
The bad news is, her friend seems to be gone.
Barbara: Alright, why don't I review the information I have so far?
Barbara: Are Tuesday and Bonnette the same person?
Barbara: The current answer seems to be "no."
Barbara: But I still have some reservations.
Barbara: Next, the secret of this motel.
She turns to the next page.
Barbara: My arcane skill only takes effect when I touch someone who's dreaming.
Barbara: When I entered that dream, I had one hand on Tuesday, and the other on the floor.
Barbara: And she just said she never dreams. So ...
Tuesday: Ah, my sweet child. Have you figured it out?
Barbara: Then, maybe it was the dream of a ghost?
Barbara: The ghost of someone who died in this motel?
Tuesday: sigh
She sighs in disappointment and steps away from the keyhole.
Tuesday: Silly child.
As if agreeing with her, the other doors in the hallway open and close synchronously.
Tuesday: Quiet now. We have guests.
The door beside her opens and spits out a spider.
Tuesday: Leave them. She could use a few spiders to keep her company.
Tuesday: You've done well, little one. You can come with me.
She disappears into the dark hallway.
