In the center of the red room stands a snow-white crib.
The hanging curtains sway slightly, like pulsating veins.
An arcanist with the head of a sheep stands there, silently observing the translucent fabric.
Footsteps draw closer, but she doesn't turn to face them.
Tuesday: Are you not satisfied with my services?
Barbara: ...
Barbara: No matter what, you shouldn't have cut the phone off.
The maid withdraws her hand from the telephone's hook switch with a hint of apology.
Barbara: Nor should you have isolated me from the outside world.
Barbara: Because you should know better than anyone what that means.
Tuesday: Why should I?
Tuesday: All I know is that a poor, helpless child like you shouldn't be alone on the roadside.
Tuesday: Where's your mother? Didn't she tell you to be careful?
Barbara: ...
She sighs softly.
Barbara: You really don't remember anything, do you?
Tuesday: What do you mean? What do you think I should remember?
Barbara: Well, clearly, it doesn't matter now. This motel's well decorated. Did you do all this yourself?
The maid smiles.
Tuesday: Heh heh. Are all children like this? Always talking in circles to draw Mama's attention.
Tuesday: Ah, but these innocent words make them all the more adorable.
Barbara: I am not a child.
Tuesday: Ha. That's exactly what a child would say.
Barbara: ...
She yields helplessly.
Tuesday: I've always felt a familiarity with you, like I've known you for a long time.
Tuesday: Can you tell me about it—why were you out here on Route 77 all alone?
Tuesday: Maybe I can help you.
Barbara: Have you heard of UTTU?
Tuesday: Oh, I have!
Tuesday: It's a magazine about fashion, trends, and the avant-garde.
Tuesday: My brother loved that magazine, but my father found it unacceptable—to think his eldest son would read those softies' magazines instead of working on the farm!
Tuesday: Fashion, trends, disco ... these aren't things a Texan man should pursue, at least according to my father.
Tuesday: In the end, my father destroyed all my brother's disco records, along with his plane ticket to Los Angeles.
Barbara: Perhaps that's for the best. He avoided the riots.
Tuesday: Huh?
Barbara: Nothing. So, what do you think?
She's treating the maid as an interview subject—the woman behind the legend, a chance not to be missed.
Tuesday: Me?
She looks somewhat surprised.
Tuesday: Why should I have any opinion?
Barbara: Let me rephrase that. What impact has this had on you?
Tuesday: Oh.
Tuesday ponders for a moment, then shakes her head.
Tuesday: But what happened between them has nothing to do with me, does it?
Tuesday: These were the choices they made.
She purses her lips, her face flushed.
Barbara: When I first arrived, a local resident told me not to stay at Tuesday's Motel.
Barbara: He said his aunt went mad soon after she stayed here.
The windows rattle gently, emitting a faint sound.
Tuesday: Ha, I remember that lady. Her head was so large. It reminded me of those stories of people with deformities.
Tuesday: So I had her "watch" a freak show at midnight. Sadly, she didn't seem to enjoy it.
Barbara: ...
A harvester starts up in the distance. The sound of the engine fills the room.
Tuesday: At this time of year, the farmers run their combine harvesters on the fields nonstop. The harvest is a joyful time of year, but the accompanying noise always frightens the children.
Tuesday: Have you heard the stories? Of how naughty children get too close to harvesters and get caught in them, losing a hand or even a head, haha.
Tuesday: Fields, machinery, children with severed limbs ... Hmm, these stories are exactly what my motel's missing.
The window rattling grows more frantic.
Tuesday: Oh, my baby's calling. Please excuse me; I don't want another temper tantrum on my hands.
Tuesday: Apologies, my fluffy little child. I look forward to our next conversation. Talking to you always brings me inspiration.
Tuesday: But the motel's been too busy lately. It's starting to get on my nerves.
The maid speaks slowly, her face flushed again.
Barbara: cough
Her cough is weak, like a sickly child's.
Tuesday: See, this is what I mean. How could I bear to send you out on your own? You'll stay right here in this cozy little room until you're fully recovered.
Barbara: I don't need this "special treatment" of yours. Staying here won't cure my illness.
Tuesday: Just get some sleep. You'll come to your senses after a good rest.
Tuesday: I'll see you soon.
The maid lightly steps out of the room.
Barbara watches as the door vanishes.
Tuesday: ...?
She looks at the pool of blood in the hallway where the officer's body once was.
Tuesday: How many times have I told you not to eat things off the floor?
???: cry
The bundle in her arms suddenly lets out a strange cry.
Tuesday: There, there. Don't cry, sweetheart.
