The man behind me hums an errant tune as he follows me up the steps and through the open walkway. I drag my fingers along the shoddy railing as we move, trying to stabilize the building as much as myself. Even the nails holding the pilings together are falling into flakes of rust. The metal shavings give the walkway the texture of a barnacle.

“The reception office is right around this way. Sorry for the inconvenience.”

“No, it’s fine.”

It’s only June, just a month since I graduated, and the skies are already threatening autumn storms. Or maybe it’s just my imagination. I straighten out the hem of my company polo shirt, striding past more than a few vacant rooms.

We weren’t expecting any early arrivals, but the man who arrived at the stoop of the Villa Capriani Vacation Rentals outbuilding looked incredibly harried, so I’m letting him check in anyways. Last week, Maria reminded me that I should get as many guests processed as early as possible in the morning — the high season rush is about to start, and the crowds get bad.

I didn’t think I would be here when the summer started. Last year, I thought I would be working in the city or something. Any other place than home, but, well—

“Damn, the air’s got a bite to it, yeah?” the man comments. “The salt, I mean.”

I nod but don’t look back, pulling the keys to the office out of my pocket instead. I hear him drop his bag to the ground as the door, grain swollen from the heat, resists my attempts to open it.

“Where, um, I — How long ‘ave you lived here?”

“I don’t,” I mutter, lying, as the door finally comes free. It bounces off the plaster walls, bits of old-hotel dust crumbling onto the floor. I hope the man doesn’t notice it. Or the broken doorknobs. Or the cracked tiles. I wonder when I got so protective of this place.

“I just got back from college,” I continue. “I’m helping out at my old job for a while.”

“Oh.”

The man pauses in the entryway as I turn on the lights and the old computer.

“So you’re still kind of a local.”

I peer up at him, the first time I’ve looked at him directly since his car pulled into the parking lot. Dark brown eyes, short salt-and-pepper hair. Banker glasses. He had parked a red 2012 Toyota Camry in the last spot on the left, which I duly note on the check-in spreadsheet when the program finally opens.

“I guess so. If you need recommendations for anything during your stay, I’d be happy to help.” That’s what Maria told me to say to the guests. The words taste dry.

I log into her account and pull up the reservations list. “Mr. Holland, correct? Six nights in 32A?”

“Right,” he laughs, awkwardly. I click away at the keyboard, the sound floating into the polystyrene popcorn ceilings like music in an opera-house gallery.

While I rifle through the drawer for the box of keys, I glance through the window. On the beach outside, a pelican bites at nothing, its gullet stretched like a sail in the wind. A gust blows an old beer can across the dunes, and the bird flaps away. I sigh. It’s my fault I’m stuck here — I’m the one who never answered that interview call — but I can’t even bring myself to untangle my life from the hotel.

I reach out to hand the man his room keys, but he’s lost staring out the window. The furrow of his eyebrow tracks the motion of the waves. While he watches, I notice that the sill is peeling and covered in bird shit. I’m sure that in a few weeks Maria will ask me to fix it.

“I can’t believe you locals don’t get out more! Have the check-in outside, or something, y’know? It’s beautiful.”

I laugh. I moved to college just to get away from this town, but Mr. Holland doesn’t need to know that. He takes the key from my hand and hesitates.

“Anything else I can do for you?” I prod, picking at the laminate counter as I look him over.

“Is there any chance you could show me to my room? I, um, got a little lost earlier in the parking lot.”

Maria wants me to increase our ratings on TripAdvisor, so I agree, gesturing for him to follow me out. He swings his bag onto his shoulder and trails behind me. 32A is a first-floor room, on the left side of the resort with an ocean view. The wooden deck beneath us creaks as I lead him to his destination, passing the entrance pathway and the sign.

Villa Capriani, where all of your dreams come true.

“Here we are,” I say.

“Thanks.”

While Mr. Holland drags his things into his room, I hold the door open. It shuts with a click once he’s inside, and I start to walk back towards the reception office. There’s paperwork to do, and soon Maria will be calling me. I pass the door signs for 15A, then 3A, then 1A, and finally I’m standing back in front of the little office.

My hand hovers over the door as I look over my shoulder to the parking lot. I can already see the trash piling up and the morning rush of arrivals on the road.

I press the door closed and rest my head against the chipped wood. The right side of the building is eroding into the ocean, I think. Sitting in the reception office, I can almost feel it. The movement of the island under my feet.

Fuck this.

Instead of heading to my chair for the rest of the day, I walk out. Gravel crunches under my feet as I wind through the parking lot to my car. Putting my keys in the ignition, I follow the receding tide and drive away from the hotel, chucking the keys to Villa Capriani out of the window as I accelerate as fast down the highway as I can go.

Maria calls me, and I hurl my phone out the window, too.