Chester Mallory

Chester Mallory, 42, is a traveling salesman from Chicago, sharply dressed in a checkered shirt, dark tie, and thick-rimmed glasses that lend him a certain gravity. His posture is straight, his expression composed, but there’s something tight behind the eyes. He’s been on the road too long, selling too many things to people who don’t want them. The Newton Motel is just another stop, a quiet place to reset before the next stretch. He spends his evenings reviewing figures alone, the desert silence more comforting than he’d like to admit.