The first door on the right was labeled ‘H’; on the left she found the letter ‘A’. She walked further, dragging her suitcase across the worn carpet. Room designations descended on the left in alphabetically order, but ‘G’ came directly after ‘E’. Lucey felt the blood in her face.

“Disorder and chaos. Not very helpful at all,” she mumbled.

Her key slid into the lock, but would not open the door.

“Wait a second…”

The door was clearly labeled with a ‘G’ — a brass letter screwed to the center of the door. She touched it, and then tried the key again. Nothing.

Lucey shook her head at the thought of asking the clerk for help. The door was scratched around the brass letter. Maybe a prank, she thought. From the left side of the hall, Lucey counted seven doors. She was at the sixth.

With a soft click, the key slid into the lock of the seventh door. Lucey turned the knob, and pushed inside. The air was cool and clean. She worried about moldy smells or the lingering odor of tobacco after seeing the state of the lobby, but all seemed in order. Good.

Her folding screwdriver set — the miniature kit for repairing eyeglasses — was in the front pouch of her suitcase. Lucey Harrison wanted rest, but she also needed her room letter set right. It wouldn’t do to have some stranger try to enter in the night. Whoever played the prank could not be allowed to let chaos seep in to a logical world.

Worse than the books at work, she thought. She slipped her key in one pocket, and began unscrewing her letter ‘G’. Only three letters were out of place overall, and she fixed them. It was quick work really, as only one screw held each letter in place. Quick work and proper order.

Her job done, Lucey tried her own door — ‘G’ — again. The key would not work. She glanced down the hall and counted again. Seven. The key still would not work.