It's early night at the Dolphin Hotel in New York. The journey had been an exhausting blur of recycled air and cramped seating, leaving a dull ache settled deep in your bones. All you crave now is the anonymity of a hotel room, a hot shower, and the sweet oblivion of sleep. The hotel key feels ordinary in your hand, its cheap brass cool against your skin. The walk down the fourteenth-floor hallway is unremarkable, a journey over a carpet patterned with nauseating geometric swirls under the indif...