Excerpt from The Dream Hotel by Laila Lalami, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

But there came a moment when she grew tired of staring at empty walls and her old habits prevailed. By training, she is a historian of post-colonial Africa, specializing in independence movements and border formation, but except for a few years when she taught at Cal State she hasn't worked as a historian. She's spent most of her career in digital archiving, work that doesn't require her to prepare lectures, allows her to write on subjects she finds interesting, and pro- vides health insurance. Or did, anyway.

While she waits for the breakfast bell, she writes her dreams in as much detail as she can remember. In last night's dream, she's scrolling through her Printastic feed one day at breakfast when she comes across a 1954 photograph of Moroccan independence fighters misidentified as conscripts in the French army. It's an embarrassing mistake, which even a first-year student of African history wouldn't make, and soon she discovers, with abject horror, that it was posted from her account. Already there are dozens of comments, mocking or shaming her for the blunder. But no matter how many times she taps the Delete button, the picture stays on her feed and her device pings with new notifications—the high-pitched sound of her disgrace. The only way to delete the image is to remove it from the mainframe that sits in a bunker underneath her building. Stairs appear in front of her and she takes them two by two, her hand barely grazing the banister as she hurries to the basement. Then the stairs melt into quicksand and her feet sink.

Another dream about humiliation. Writing it down makes her realize that what stings most isn't the moment of public shame, but the silence of the people she thought would come to her defense. The feeling that she has been tainted and must be cast out is painful, reminding her of her first days at Madison, when she expected to hear that her friend Myra, with whom she used to hike in Will Rogers State Park most weekends, had come to her defense. All the way up to Inspiration Point, Myra would talk about how disgusted she was with the men she was dating and her plans to move to France as soon as she qualified for one of their reproductive-age visas. At the viewpoint, though, the sun-glazed Pacific would lull her into a dreamy silence. Then all the way down, she'd talk about why she could never leave the people she loved behind, people like Sara. It was a comfort to Sara each time, hearing that Myra treasured their friendship. As it happened, only her family has been in touch with her since she's been at Madison; everyone else is afraid that associating with her might damage their risk scores.

Now she goes to the window. If she cranes her neck a certain way, and puts her hands around her eyes to block the ceiling light, she can see a stretch of road bordered by creosote and, beyond it, a mountain. It's not much of a mountain, it's probably more of a hill, but it's covered with creosote and brittlebush that shiver at the slightest breeze. This morning the sky is cloudy. A flock of blackbirds gathers in formation, then breaks off again before disappearing from sight. Like Hinton, the old woman is a little late today. She lumbers to the bus stop weighed down by straw baskets, hats, and mats, her long, beaded earrings swinging with each step. An artist is how Sara thinks of the old woman, emerging out of her workshop three days a week to sell her original pieces at the farmer's markets in nearby towns.

Then the bus arrives, its brakes screeching as it comes to a halt.

The old woman gets on, scans her face, and places her things on the luggage rack. The driver waits, watching in his rearview mirror as she takes a seat in the priority area, facing Madison. Can she see Sara from that distance? It's impossible to tell. But Sara likes to think of the old woman as a friend, a kind friend who checks in on her a few times a week.

She watches until the bus is out of sight and the scene resumes its tranquility. A solitary moment is rare at Madison and she tries to make this one last as long as she can, but she gives it up when the breakfast bell rings.

Excerpted from The Dream Hotel by Laila Lalami. Copyright © 2025 by Laila Lalami. Excerpted by permission of Pantheon Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.