After leaving the hospital, Anselm found a grimy room in a rundown motel. It was like every other room he'd ever stayed in, just enough for his immediate needs and nothing more. He made arrangements to have it for the next two weeks. Surely the doctor's police friend could figure out what was mugging old men in the city in that length of time. If she hadn't pressed him to talk to the officer, he would've been on his way out of town already.
Once the room situation was settled, he took two painkillers, bolted the door and tried to get some sleep. The bed was lumpy, his backpack made a hard pillow, and it was still better than some of the places he'd slept in over the centuries.
After dark, he ventured out to get some dinner. The tiny room didn't even have a hot plate although the argument could be made for an outdoor icebox to keep something cold. If the window hadn't been painted shut years ago. Then again, the room itself was cold enough to store meat.
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