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Silas walks back inside with the pizza, and Tate sits against the headboard, pulling the sheet up to his waist, and turns on the television. "No Netflix at The Trash Bag Inn. Sorry, Noah."

I scoff and crawl under the covers beside him. "That's not what it's called."

"No, you're right. Do you know what it's called? Motel."

"Make room for the pizza," Silas says.

I move closer to Tate and he pulls me over until I'm sitting between his legs and reclining against his chest.

"It's not really called Motel, either," I say. "It has to have a name."

"Yeah, it is, Noah. And it has a name—I just told you the name. What's the sign say?"

"Motel…but—"

"You live here. If it's not called Motel, what's it called then?" He shrugs and grabs a slice of pizza from the box. "Oh, Screammarathon. Let's watch that."

"I don't know what it's called; I exist in a vacuum." He scoffs and takes a bite of the pizza. "But you're lying."

"No, he's not, Noah," Silas says. "It's really called Motel. It comes up as Motel on a GPS, and when I checked in, I asked the guy what it's called, and he said it doesn't really have a name, but they called it Winter Falls Motel when they answer the phone."

"Then that's the name. It's not just Motel."

"No!" Tate says. "No, it's not, becausethen, I asked the guy what his paycheck says, and hetold meit just says Motel."

I sigh. "Whatever."

"You're mad because I'm right," he says.

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are. Just admit it."

"No, she's mad because the motel doesn't have a name. It made me fucking mad, too; that's why I asked what it was called."

"Yeah, itdoesmake me mad, and I refuse to accept it. If I stopped at a motel, and the person behind the desk told me it didn't have a name, I would break everything in there and leave."

"Well, your town doesn't have a lot of options," Silas says.

"This is theonlyoption," Tate says.

"Well…where do you live?" I ask.

I wait, but neither of them answers. I look at Silas, but he's looking at Tate, and Tate isn't answering.

It scares me.

Tate threads his fingers through my hair and rubs circles behind my ear with his thumb. "You need to eat," he says, ignoring my question.

I glance at Silas again, but he's just eating and staring straight ahead at the television. He's not going to tell me, either.

"I can't eat that."

There are too many different textures and far too much cheese. Even cut into tiny pieces, I don't think I'd be able to stomach it.

"Hey, Silas? Can you get me one of those forks?"

Silas removes the wrapping from a plastic fork and knife and hands it to Tate. He uses it to cut the pizza into pieces and then brings the fork to my mouth.