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	When it's getting late & the next interstate mile marker seems far enough, a glowing desert bloom of lights in the flat darkness guides you to an exit ending beyond the windshield, right or left between eyes on a restaurant & a small motor lodge.

While checking in, four others enter the motel lobby speaking German: two men & one woman roaming past middle age with another woman about half-way there; a second-lifer, you guess of one of the older three as you register, then forget-about as you walk under the overpass towards the restaurant.

The place has two sections: one with a bar & tables or booths with a few customers — the other, vacant with an empty buffet.
 
You seat yourself at the bar, order a lime-rita-rocks & look around at the others, wondering why they've also pulled over, particularly here or not.