Margaret looked at him.
"For what?"
"For them."
"You didn't do it."
"I watched."
"You spoke once."
"Not enough."
Margaret studied him.
"Why didn't you say more?"
Sam looked toward the floor indicator.
"Because I need this job."
There was no self-pity in the answer.
Only fact.
The elevator opened.
He showed Margaret to Room 214.
The room was clean.
At least housekeeping had not failed.
Margaret stepped inside.
Sam remained at the door.
"Can I get you anything?"
"A cup of tea would be nice."
"I can call room service."
Margaret smiled.
"Will they deliver to people like me?"
Sam flushed.
"I'll bring it myself."
"You don't need to."
"I know."
He left.
Margaret locked the door.
Then stood completely still.
The old room looked different when you owned it.
She saw assets.
Wallpaper selected during the 2019 renovation.
Brass fixtures sourced from Portugal.
Carpet that had cost almost two hundred dollars per square yard.
Furnishings.
Labor.
Capital.
Millions invested to create luxury.
And downstairs, two employees had erased it in ten minutes.
Margaret took out her phone.
One message to Daniel.
Worse than reports.
His reply appeared immediately.
Do you want me there tonight?
No.
Tomorrow as planned.
Safe?
Yes.
She hesitated.
Then wrote:
Pull camera footage from lobby before it disappears. Quietly.
Done.
A knock came.
Sam.
Tea.
Not a silver service tray.
A simple ceramic pot, cup, milk, sugar, and two packets of biscuits.
"Kitchen was slammed."
"This is perfect."
He set it down.
Margaret noticed fatigue in his face.
"You've been working long?"
"Since seven."
"It's almost ten."
He shrugged.
"Double."
"Why?"
Sam looked toward the door.
Then back.
"Money."
"Fair reason."
She poured tea.
"You work doubles often?"
"Three times a week."
"That sounds brutal."
"My mom's sick."
He said it without drama.
Margaret stopped pouring.
"I'm sorry."
"Thanks."
"What kind of treatment?"
Sam hesitated.
Maybe he had said too much.
"You don't have to tell me."
He leaned against the wall.
"She has multiple myeloma."
Margaret knew enough to understand.
Cancer of plasma cells.
Serious.
Treatable for many patients.
Often expensive and long-term.
"She's fifty-one."
Sam continued.
"She was diagnosed last year."
"Insurance covers a lot."
"Not everything."
"She had to stop working."
"My younger sister is seventeen."
"So..."
He gestured at his uniform.
"I work."
Margaret looked at him.
"Do you have another job?"
"Warehouse overnight twice a week."
"You sleep?"