Beverly Koenig

At 34, Beverly Koenig carries herself with the gentle poise of a schoolteacher: calm voice, tidy suitcase, and a notebook never far from reach. She’s traveling west from Illinois to visit her sister in San Diego, a trip meant to be shared with her fiancé. But on this particular evening, Beverly checks into the Newton Motel alone. Her fiancé stayed behind, citing obligations that felt more like hesitation. In the quiet of her room, between the sound of the ceiling fan and the ticking of a travel clock, she finds herself wondering what comes next. She sits by the window, pen in hand, half-writing letters she may never send. The desert outside is vast and still; a mirror, perhaps, of the pause she’s allowing herself before the next step in her life.