A Future...

The place Sam picked for dinner was a strip-mall restaurant two blocks off the main drag, the kind of place that survived not on décor but on the exact calibration of salt, acid, and nostalgia in its menu. Andy had walked past it a dozen times on the way to the Blue Bean but had never noticed it was open for dinner. There was a bell over the door, and a waitress who wore orthopedic shoes and called both of them “sweetheart” before she’d even handed over the laminated menus.

The lighting was gentle and gold, not the interrogation-chamber neon of most places nearby, and the walls were covered in autographed eight-by-ten glossies of local minor celebrities—news anchors, cops, one state senator with a hair helmet and a desperate smile. The place was half full, the way every truly local place always is: two tired regulars at the bar, one old couple splitting fries without talking, a four-top of grad students in matching hoodies staring at their phones in synchronized misery.

They took a booth by the window, which was mercifully far from the TVs on either end of the bar. Sam tucked into the seat, grabbed a menu, and said, “I am ordering the most expensive thing on here, on principle.”

Andy glanced at the menu, feigning interest in the “House Special Shrimp.” “It’s not even a contest. You’re going for the prime rib.”

She grinned. “The single highest-priced item. It’s a moral obligation. You can expense it, right?”

Andy huffed. "I haven't had an expense account since I sold Aural, and even before then, I was too embarrassed to use the card.”

“Wow,” Sam said. “How does it feel to be a tech millionaire and still act like money’s going to vanish if you spend it?”

He set the menu down. “If you keep bringing it up, I’m going to buy this restaurant and make them rename the Chicken Cordon Bleu after you.”

Sam set her own menu down, held up a finger. “Counterpoint: you’re the only one of us who could actually do that.”

He couldn’t help it; he laughed, soft and real. “You know, you’re about to be a married woman with a thriving business and an apartment of her own. You’re the one with the stable life. Which of us actually has it together?”

Sam looked away, then back, and the smile faded out. “You think?” She twisted the menu in her hands, the lamination catching and scattering the light. “You ever think about how fast everything changes?” She didn’t wait for a response. “I mean, I was a week away from getting evicted my freshman year, and now I’m arguing with Liesa about which side of the bed is better.”

Andy tried to imagine Sam shopping for home décor. He failed. “Which side did you pick?”

She blinked. “The one closest to the door. In case of a fire. Or burglars. Duh.”

He nodded. “That tracks.”

Sam flicked her gaze to the window, then back. “You want to know something wild?”

Andy leaned in, elbows on the table. “Always.”

She made a little face, like she was bracing for a punch. “Liesa’s pregnant.”

Andy’s brain did a half-second freeze. “Wait, what?”

She set her menu flat, hands folded over it. “It’s real. I know I should have told you sooner, but we wanted to be sure.”

He blinked, then blinked again. “You’re—Sam, that’s incredible. How did—”

Her mouth twisted. “Harem Hotel logic, I guess. We got fan mail with ‘phantom penis’ scrolls, fan mail with ‘get pregnant free’ potions… frankly, a lot of people seem very invested in this. We sat on these things for a while. Didn’t want to make things weird. But then…” She shrugged, apologetically. “We went for it. So now Liesa’s pregnant, and…” She trailed off, shrugged. “There’s a baby. I’m going to be someone’s mom.”

Andy let the words sink in. Sam, mother. Liesa, glowing with the complicated joy and terror of it. “That’s—that’s amazing. Are you okay?”

Sam let out a sharp little laugh. “I don’t know. Nobody tells you how to do any of this. But I think I want it. Us, I mean. I want to see what kind of kid we’d make.”

Andy didn’t say anything at first. The surprise was real—he hadn’t even thought of Sam in the context of parenthood, let alone her and Liesa, let alone this soon. But once the news sunk in, it made a kind of perfect, disobedient sense. Of course Sam would be the first of the group to break the mold. Of course she’d go at it sideways, with zero warning, and then just drop it on him in a restaurant booth after discussing the moral superiority of prime rib.

He realized he was staring, and blinked himself back. “You want to see what kind of kid you’d make?”

She raised her hands, like: what, you don’t?

Andy laughed. “I mean, the world’s not ready, but I am. Seriously, Sam—that’s amazing. Liesa must be ecstatic.”

“Liesa is…,” Sam trailed off, mouth quirking. “She’s handling it. There’s a lot of planning. She’s already making lists.”

He let that hang a second, enjoying the image. Liesa, normally the calm in Sam’s storm, freaking out about baby gear and prenatal vitamins and future art projects taped to the fridge. It made sense.

“So how do you feel about it?” Andy asked.

Sam didn’t dodge, but she didn’t answer right away. She flicked her eyes down at the menu, then out the window, then back to the table, her fingers worrying at the edge of the napkin. “I don’t know,” she admitted, and this time her voice was quieter, without the usual brass. “I always thought it would be me and the café and, I don’t know, maybe a cat. This—” She waved her hand, meaning the whole idea. “I kind of want it. Us. The whole thing.”

He smiled at her. “You’re going to be a great mom.”

She rolled her eyes. “Easy for you to say. You get to be fun uncle, swoop in, teach the kid to play chess, then go home.”

He snorted. “Sure, if the kid wants to learn from a guy who once lost to a nine-year-old at the library.”

Sam chuckled. “You threw that game. You know it, and I know it. Stop milking it for sympathy points.” She looked at him, and for a moment she was the nineteen-year-old he’d met in college—sharp, stubborn, a little bit scared of the whole world but never about to admit it.

“You realize your kid’s going to grow up with a small army of cousins,” Andy said. “You, Liesa, and a baby. But between Erin, Claire and Chloe, that’s already four cousins on the way.”

Sam’s eyebrows shot up. “Wait. Since when is Chloe pregnant?”

Andy winced. “She told me last round. You really didn’t know? I guess I wasn’t supposed to say anything yet. Sorry.”

Sam snorted. “God, you’re terrible at secrets.”

He threw his hands up. “In my defense, you just told me you’re having a baby with my ex-girlfriend from Belgium. Secrets are a two-way street.”

She pointed at him. “That’s not how logic works.”

Andy grinned. “Says the woman who is literally redefining family as we know it.”

Sam just shook her head, but she was smiling. She sipped her water. “You okay with it? Liesa, I mean. Her having my kid before she maybe has one with you?” She said it like it was the most normal question in the world, but her eyes flicked to his, just for a second, and he saw the real question underneath.

Andy thought about it. “Honestly? I don’t know how I’d be with anyone else but you two. You and Liesa—” He tried to find the words. “It just fits. I love her, and I know she loves me, and if she wants this with you, then it’s right. If, later on, she wants one with me, and I do too, there’ll always be time.” He took a breath. “Plus, I’m about to be responsible for, like, a dozen kids within a year, at this rate. If it means I can skip a turn, that’s fine by me.”

Sam let out a real, unguarded laugh, and the tension snapped. “God, you’re an idiot,” she said, but it was soft.

He shrugged. “It’s true. There are going to be so many kids, Sam. Have you thought about that? So. Many. Kids. This is a future sitcom in the making.”

Sam reached for her water and chugged half of it, then let the glass thunk back onto the Formica. “You know the only thing scarier than having one baby?” she said. “Having four, all at once.”

Andy made a face. “Please don’t say that. I’m barely keeping my head above water as it is.”

“Then you better up your stamina, Grandpa. You’re not just the fun uncle. Statistically, you’re the odds-on favorite for most diaper changes, too.”

He thought about this, then shook his head. “No, it’s gotta be Riley. She’ll invent a poem about it. Or bribe one of the kids with extra phone time. Or Norah. She’d come up with a spreadsheet to distribute the task evenly.”

Sam grinned, but then it faded out and she went quiet. Andy could tell something was about to turn serious—she always did that, a full-body pause right before she let go of whatever was inside.

She said, “You want to know the weirdest part of this? I never thought I’d get any of it.” She didn’t look at him, just kept her eyes on the table. “I grew up so sure I wasn’t supposed to have nice things. Not love, not a career, definitely not a family. My parents never made room for me, so I got used to staying outside the door.”

Andy didn’t move. He waited, the way you learn to wait for the end of a heavy sentence.

Sam kept going: “Even after I came out, I figured, best-case, I’d run the café, have some friends, maybe a cat if I was lucky. I had you, and Michael. I got really good at pretending that was enough. But then you got invited to The HH. I met Erin again. And Liesa happened. And somehow, this whole thing happened.” She exhaled, a little shaky. “I never let myself want it before, because wanting stuff is the best way to get your heart stomped on. Wanting is for people who get picked.”

Andy sat with that, the history behind it, the whole shape of Sam’s life pressed into one tiny wedge of truth. He reached across the table and set his hand over hers, and when she didn’t pull away, he kept it there.

She looked up at him, and the face she made was almost a smile. “Now I want it, Andy. I want the baby. I want the family, the whole sitcom, the disaster dinners and the screaming little monsters. I want to stay picked. And that scares the shit out of me.”

He squeezed her hand, once. “You don’t have to do anything except show up. You know that, right?”

Sam blinked, hard. “If you make me cry in a restaurant, I’m going to pay for dinner with your credit card and then dine-and-dash.”

He laughed, soft and quiet, but didn’t move his hand. “Deal. Just don’t tell the waitress.”

Sam wiped her face with her napkin, then made a face. “You ever notice these things don’t actually absorb anything? They just push it around.”

He shrugged. “Maybe it’s a metaphor.”

She finally smiled for real, then plucked the menu back up. “Okay. I’m going to get the prime rib, and then I’m going to eat the entire thing, and if you try to stop me I will use my strength to break your wrist.”

Andy let go and picked up his own menu. “I wouldn’t dare. I’m scared of you, remember?”

Sam was already flagging the waitress. “Good.”

They both ordered—the prime rib for Sam, and Andy got the shrimp scampi, on a whim. The waitress called them “sweethearts” again and winked when she collected the menus, like she knew a secret about them that they hadn’t figured out yet.

For a few minutes they just sat there, comfortable, the moment between them stretched out and easy. Andy watched Sam for a second, the set of her shoulders, the way she leaned back and let the whole world settle on her like she was finally allowed to have it. He felt a small, sharp pride, the kind you get when you see your best friend win at something so hard it makes you want to tell everyone in the place.

He said, “You’re going to be really good at this, you know.”

Sam made a face. “I’m going to be a disaster.”

He grinned. “That’s what makes you perfect.”

She flicked her straw wrapper at him, then glanced out the window. “You ever picture it, the future?”

He let himself think about it. He could see it all, weird and bright and wild. He nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “I think I do.”

Sam looked at him and smiled, the kind of smile you keep tucked away for emergencies. “Good,” she said. “Because it’s going to be insane, and I need someone else to make fun of it with me.”

He held up his water glass. “To chaos,” he said.

Sam clinked her glass against his. “To family,” she said, and for the first time all day, her voice didn’t even shake.

The plates were gone. The second round of drinks was already sweating down the sides of the tumblers, and the residue of Sam’s meal—a lone chip, a massacre of au jus—was the only evidence there’d ever been food. They’d switched to real drinks, gin for Sam and a local bourbon for Andy, and both had the amber, backlit look of something that meant to carry a conversation to the finish line.

Sam leaned back in the booth, chin propped in her hand, and said nothing.

Andy watched her, the careful way her eyes flicked from the bar TV to her drink to the window. If Sam went quiet, something was wrong. It was a law of the universe.

He said, “You ever notice that when you go quiet, the world gets nervous?”

Sam smiled, but it was a worn, fraying thing. “You saying I talk too much?”

“I’m saying you’re loud enough to be missed.” He raised his glass a little, just enough to tip the words toward her.

She let the silence stretch, then shook her head. “It’s weird, though. We just talked about family for a half hour, and I feel like none of it even touches what I meant to say.”

He waited. You learned, with Sam, that the best way to get the real thing was to wait for it to bubble out sideways.

Finally, she sighed and rolled the glass between her palms. “Okay, look. This is a bit heavy for a ‘date,’ but then again, it’s not like either of us is trying to get into each other’s pants. So… you ever get the feeling the universe is, like, screaming at you, but all you can do is watch?” She didn’t look at him. “That’s the feeling I have.”

Andy tilted his head. “You mean with the baby, or…”

Sam shook her head. “Not the baby. Not even Liesa. Just—” She looked up at him, the blue in her eyes hard and searching. “It’s everyone. The whole damn Hotel.”

He blinked, then tried to catch her meaning. “You’re worried about the others?”

“I’m worried about the others.” She let the glass settle, then set both hands flat on the table, as if bracing for recoil. “Okay, let me just say it. The family we just talked about? The one I just built? It’s the same group that’s been screaming inside my head for days.”

Andy frowned. “Sam, what—”

She held up a hand. “I know. It sounds nuts. But after the last round, you know, the Watchtower transformation? It’s like this switch flipped, and now I can feel it. When a woman at the Hotel is freaking out, or when they’re aroused, or—” She made a face. “Any of it. It’s like a siren. And the more it happens, the louder it gets.”

He tried to process. “Like… you feel what they feel?”

“It’s not really feeling what they feel, it’s more like a… notification, I guess? And it’s not every little thing. It’s just the stuff that’s off the charts. Distress, or, uh—” She waved the idea away, embarrassed. “Or when they’re, you know, going at it. You, specifically.”

He almost choked on the bourbon. “You can feel—”

She waved both hands, as if batting away smoke. “Not the details. Just the volume. Like a car alarm going off at 2 a.m. I could tune it out at first, but this week—” She drew a slow breath, let it out through her teeth. “It’s been nearly constant, Andy. Like a disaster hotline with all the lines jammed. Like playing Whack-a-Mole: one girl calms down, and another one freaks out.”

Andy leaned in, voice soft. “You should have said something.”

She rolled her eyes, but not at him. “And say what? ‘Hey, some of your fiancées and girlfriends are mentally exploding, please fix it?’ I don’t even know if it’s about you, most of the time. It’s just there, all the time. And the worst part is, I have no idea what’s causing it. It’s like they’re clustering together, and so I just have to sit with it, knowing somebody’s breaking, and I can’t do a thing.”

He let the words sink in. “Is it… anyone in particular? Or just everyone?”

Sam ran a thumb along the rim of her glass. “At first, it was just Laura. You have no idea how strong it was. A week ago, it felt like a bomb suddenly went off. I thought it would fade, but then it just simmered, and then it would spike, like she was holding it down. It’s been spiking every day, in the morning, and then—” Sam shrugged, defeated. “Then Myra started up. That was also a big spike, but resolved quickly. Then Riley, yesterday. Sometimes it’s all three at once. Yesterday afternoon, for example.”

Andy’s mouth went dry. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

Sam looked up, and for a second she looked tired in a way he’d never seen. “Because I didn’t want to make it about me. Everyone’s already carrying enough.” She bit her lower lip. “Plus, I kept hoping it would pass. Like maybe I was just going nuts.”

“It’s not that,” Andy said, gentle.

Sam let the words hang, then shrugged again. “It’s worse than that. Yesterday afternoon, Laura’s distress just exploded. It lasted for hours. And right under it, always, there’s Claire. Like she’s carrying something so heavy, it’s just part of her now.”

He reached for her hand, the way he always did. She let him take it, her fingers cold and steady.

She went on: “Earlier this afternoon, Erin and Dawn went off at the same time. I’d just gotten myself steady, then Liesa, Chloe and Marissa hit at once. It was this wall of fear—I couldn’t trace it, I couldn’t stop it, I just… felt it. All I could do was hold on and hope they’d make it out the other side.”

She pressed her free hand to her sternum, as if holding herself together. “I’m supposed to be good at this, Andy. Helping people, I mean. It’s the only thing I’m really good at. And now, I’m stuck knowing the family I actually want is hurting, and I can’t even see the cut, let alone bandage it.”

Andy was quiet, letting her finish. He didn’t try to fix it, because he knew that wasn’t what she needed.

Sam said, softly, “I’m not asking you to do anything about it. I just needed you to know what it’s like. That’s all.”

He set his drink down, the ice clinking loud in the new hush. He looked at Sam for a long moment, then nodded. “There’s something I should have told you already,” he said, voice even. “And I’m going to tell you now.”

Andy looked at his glass, then at Sam, and made the decision to give it to her plain. “Laura, Myra, and Riley—they found out over the past week that they’re half-sisters. Those are the three big spikes you felt. Laura first, then Myra, then Riley yesterday. They’re the daughters of the same man. His name was Greg Ashford.”

Sam stared. “You mean—”

Andy nodded, once. “Laura’s father. Myra’s father. Riley’s father. Same man. They didn’t know, not until recently. Neither did I.”

He watched the information hit. Sam’s brow furrowed. “Greg Ashford. Greg. Where do I know that name from?”

Andy turned his glass slowly. “He was a Master, about thirty-one years ago. Arabella hosted his season. She said he was the worst she ever saw—kept women isolated from each other, used the show’s rules like a leash. Treated the harem like inventory.”

Sam’s eyes went somewhere else for a second, then came back. “And Laura, Myra, and Riley all came out of that.”

“Yeah.”

She exhaled, quiet and controlled. “So what happened to their mothers?”

Andy let out a slow breath. “It’s bad. Greg kept Laura’s mother, Sarah, under absolute control. Arabella said she was sweet, mature for her age, but Greg’s transformations and rules just wore her down. Made her into this submissive, obedient housewife. She lived in the house, but barely functioned. She had Laura, and raised her, but Laura never really got to know her mother’s real self. Greg made sure of it.”

Sam’s face was unreadable. “And the other women?”

“There was a whole harem, but two matter here. Marie and Sandra. Greg made all of them live in a shack by the river, away from the house. They had daughters—Marie’s was Myra, Sandra’s was Riley. He made them give up the kids, Myra when she was five, Riley as a newborn, kept the mothers cut off. Arabella said that’s how Greg wanted it. He hated the idea of having children. The only reason why he didn’t abandon Laura—or worse—is because Arabella threatened him.”

Sam took it in, pressing both palms to the tabletop like she could squeeze meaning from the Formica. “So the three of them—all sisters. And all grew up as only children.”

Andy nodded again.

Sam asked, “Where are the mothers now?”

Andy said, “All three are in the Hollow Garden. It’s a kind of hospital for people who didn’t make it through the Hotel whole. Marie’s alive, and she’s the only one who seems to be fully functional. Sandra—Riley’s mom—was turned into a dog-woman. Can’t walk on two legs, has ears and a tail, and so on. Sarah’s catatonic, hasn’t spoken a word since Greg was taken out of the picture.”

Sam’s hand tightened on the glass. “Fuck.”

He let her have it a second. Sam looked up, and her eyes were sharp, but her mouth was soft. “So the three I’ve been feeling all week—they’re the ones who lost everything. Who never had a real family. And now they’ve figured it out, and are trying to work out what it means, together.”

Andy nodded. “Yeah.”

Sam closed her eyes for a long beat. “Does it get worse than that?”

He didn’t look away. “It does.”