The Neat Stack

Pintagren city sat under a red sky like a roof that forgot how to be blue.

Inside the Hasdin Hotel, Harley Morningstar slid behind the front desk, her long blonde hair falling over her red-and-black dress. Her bracelets clinked as she lined up pens.

The Princess leaned close.

“New daughter, new job,” she said, setting down a stack of welcome cards. “Stamp these. One per guest.”

Harley touched her necklace like it was a button for bravery.

“One stamp,” Harley said. “Easy.”

The lobby filled. A man in a shiny coat snapped, “Hurry up.”

Harley hopped onto a chair so she could see over the counter.

“Attention!” she called, lifting the stamp like a scepter.

The Princess’s eyebrows pinched.

From the hallway, a voice like crumpled paper hissed, “Boss. Boss. Boss.”

Harley froze, then walked out. Room numbers marched past her watch face.

At Room 99, a housekeeping cart waited.

On top sat a paper crown, folded sharp and tidy.

The Cart That Wouldn’t Budge

Harley stood by the housekeeping cart outside Room 99.

The paper crown sat on top, sharp-folded like it had practiced.

“Okay,” Harley whispered. “Just paper.”

The crown made a dry little sound.

“Boss.”

Harley reached out.

The cart suddenly rolled forward on its own and thumped into a man pushing a tall mop bucket.

“Hey!” the man said. He wore a lime-green polo and a tool belt with a squeegee. “I’m Mr. Squee, the window cleaner. This hall is not a racetrack.”

A spray bottle toppled and splashed the crown.

Harley snatched it up, soggy and bending.

Mr. Squee blinked at it like it had insulted him.

“Hand that over,” he said, holding out his palm.

“No,” Harley said.

Mr. Squee grabbed it anyway and slapped it on his head.

His shoulders lifted. His voice got loud.

“You. Stamp girl. Fetch me towels. Now.”

Harley’s cheeks burned. She fumbled her phone and texted the Princess: ROOM 99 HALLWAY. COME.

The crown crinkled.

“Boss, boss, boss—”