Before Claire's Arrival

Sam was already at the bench, towel around her neck, hair damp with sweat and cheeks still flushed from her last set. She’d finished her final rep but was in no hurry to move, instead cradling the bar in her palms and staring up at the ceiling as if the tiles might rearrange into something less predictable. When Andy entered, she didn’t get up, only swung her legs to the side and offered him a lopsided, skeptical smile.

“You’re late,” she said, in that dry, teasing voice she deployed whenever something was actually kind of important. She looked a little raw around the edges, but perhaps that was just the workout, Andy told himself.

Andy shrugged as he crossed the gym, hands in pockets, and when he got close enough Sam could see the color was back in his face for the first time since coming here. Good. She’d worried about him.

She opened her arms as he approached, a gesture that would have been pure sarcasm if not for the way her hands trembled, almost imperceptibly, at the end of her reach. “Obligatory hug?” she said, but the edge had left her voice.

He grinned, stepped in. “Obligatory hug.” He echoed, and wrapped her up.

Sam stiffened, as always, for about a second before she melted into it, burying her face in his shoulder and breathing in whatever detergent they used here. She was about as tall as Emi, but she was all wiry muscle and hard angles, and she could cling. This time, she didn’t let go first.

“You good?” he asked, stepping back.

Sam nodded, visibly relaxed. “How about you?”

Andy shrugged. “Getting there. Emi gave me the world’s weirdest hug, but it actually helped. She gave me one of her origami birds.” He fished it out of his pocket—a tiny, perfect crane, folded in hospital-corner creases.

Sam picked it up and rotated it between her fingers, a faint smile playing at the edge of her mouth. “She’s good at these.” She said, surprised.

“Yeah, she’s been doing them since we were little. She taught me how, once.” Andy shook his head, amused. “I was awful at it. But I got a lot better in college.”

“I remember that. I kept fishing them out of the couch.” Sam laughed, shaking her head. She approached the barbell, studying the weights. “Hey, spot me? Or did you come to hug and run?”

He looked at her, eyebrow raised. “Is that a trick question?”

“Probably,” she said, “Come spot me on the bench. I’ll pretend to trust you.”

It was a routine they’d fallen into at the old campus gym, a ritual of sorts. Sam liked the predictability of it, the way Andy’s hands would hover just above the bar, steady but never condescending. He was good at being there without announcing it. She liked the idea that someone had her back, even if it was only just in case.

She slid under the bar and set her grip, inhaling sharply. “Count me down?” she asked.

Andy nodded, giving her a steady “Three, two, one—” and she unracked the bar, lowering it with perfect control until it hovered just above her chest. Sam always prided herself on control. It was the closest thing to magic she believed in.

She pushed through the first rep, then the next, but by the fifth her arms started to shake in that delicious, productive way. Andy’s hands tracked the bar the whole time, just above her line of sight.

“Last two,” he said, voice calm.

She gritted her teeth and finished the set, then racked the bar and let her arms flop to her sides. Sweat beaded on her brow, but she was smiling.

“See?” Andy said. “You didn’t die.”

Sam sat up, shaking out her arms. “Not yet. But if I do, you owe me a eulogy.”

He grinned. “I’ll start writing it now.”

They both laughed, and for a moment, the heaviness in the air broke. But Sam could sense there was something else lurking beneath Andy’s ease, some question he was struggling to formulate.

She leaned back on her elbows, letting her legs swing. “Okay, spit it out. I know you, Andy. You get that look whenever you’re about to drop a bomb.”

He hesitated, then said, “Do you think it’s possible to… I don’t know. Get out of here better than we came in?”

Sam considered this, then tossed the crane to the floor, where it landed wings-up. “I think it’s possible to get out of almost anywhere better than you came in. But only if you’re not too busy looking for the exits.”

Andy laughed. “That sounds like something you’d put on a motivational poster, right above a picture of a cat.”

She grinned. “That’s because I’m secretly a huge sap.” She studied him. “You’re going to be okay, you know,” she said.

Andy smiled, a real one this time. “Yeah. Something tells me you will, too.”

Another obligatory hug later, he left the gym to head to the Suite, and prepare for Claire’s arrival.

The rest of Dawn’s day passed in a blur of activity: pool time, lunch, a group session with Marissa (who made everyone practice saying what they liked and didn’t like, even if it was weird or embarrassing), then an impromptu cooking contest in the shared kitchen, which Emi won by producing a six-armed omelet flip. The pixie-like girl grinned from ear to ear, incredibly proud of her admittedly awe-inspiring achievement. The speed at which she was gaining control was impressive. But the four lower arms still wandered when she didn’t use them.

“I wonder where Andy is,” Emi asked at some point, and Claire gave her a faint smile.

Dawn shook her head. “He said yesterday he wants to give us space. He thinks some of us would not react well if he were around.”

Marissa frowned, her lips tight, but she did not contradict the statement. Emi sighed. “I hope he remembers he also should care about himself. He was never good at that.”

As evening fell, the group gathered in the lounge again, this time with more confidence, more ease. Even Norah joined them, plopping onto a loveseat and grabbing the remote to start a movie before anyone could object.

Dawn found herself sandwiched between Claire and Emi, both leaning against her, and thought: This is what it’s supposed to feel like. Like family.

When the clock chimed seven, Marissa stretched and stood, brushing crumbs from her shirt. “Assigned nights start at eight,” she reminded, voice kind. “Let’s get ready.”

They said their goodnights, hugging in pairs or threes, and Dawn watched as Emi and Claire disappeared down the hall, Emi’s arms wrapped around herself in a nervous hug. She knew it would be fine.

As the group scattered, Dawn lingered in the lounge, gazing out at the moonlit garden. She felt the compulsion tugging at her, but she let it pull, gentle as a current, and knew she could live with it.

Tonight would be Claire’s turn with Andy. She hoped it would be as perfect for her as it had been for herself.

She poured a final cup of tea, drank it, and finally, reluctantly, went to her room.

She slept like a stone.

The corridors glowed with gold from the setting sun as Andy walked back to the Suite, the kind of light that made even hotel carpet look holy. his thoughts went back to his conversation with Arabella that morning, every impossible fact the Host had let slip.

If she’s telling the truth, he thought, then maybe we can win.

He didn’t know what that meant. Not yet. But the idea buoyed him, carried him back up to the Suite as the sun started to slide down the arc of the sky. He paused at the door, key card in hand, then pushed inside, letting the quiet swallow him. The Suite was unchanged: all soft light and tasteful luxury, the scent of linen and ocean air and something faintly, inexplicably metallic.

Katherine was waiting for him, as always, in her frame above the fireplace. Her painted body glowed in the sunset, every muscle caught in a subtle, lifelike tension. When he walked in, she looked right at him, lips parted in what might have been a hello. She waved excitedly. The sight of her—impossibly vivid, still so real after all this time—had become less uncanny, more familiar, like a piece of art you learned to love by seeing it every day.

Andy dropped onto the couch facing her. “Hey, Katherine,” he said, feeling faintly stupid, but also comforted by the routine.

She smiled, the corners of her eyes wrinkling just so. Then, as if summoned by some old etiquette, she straightened her posture and extended her arms toward him in a greeting. He couldn’t help but grin.

“I talked to Arabella today,” he told her. “She says she’s not the boss. There are rules, boundaries, a whole playbook she has to follow.” He let out a soft huff of disbelief. “She promised not to lie to me. Which, you know, means I’m either in more trouble than I thought or maybe a little less.”

Katherine raised one brow, unimpressed.

He laughed. “Yeah, I don’t buy it either. Not all the way. But I want to believe it. And I promised you I’d keep an open mind.”

He let the silence hang, soaking in the warmth of the fading sun. Then, after a minute, he noticed something—Katherine kept glancing past him, toward the Suite’s western wall, where a bank of windows overlooked the gardens and the horizon beyond. He watched her for a while, and realized she was following the last light of the day, tracking the sun as it drifted toward the sea.

He stood, crossed to the windows, and studied the view. The sky was a raging orange, the clouds backlit to a fire. He turned back to Katherine, who was still watching, her painted face soft with something that looked a lot like longing.

Andy hesitated, then walked to the fireplace. “Can I ask you something?” he said, only partly joking. “Is this thing stuck to the wall, or can it come down?”

Katherine’s eyes widened. She shook her head, as if warning him off, but there was a glint of hope in the motion, a secret maybe.

“Is it indestructible?” he pressed.

A nod. Then, with effort, she mimed a heavy weight, both hands out.

Andy grinned, sudden adrenaline surging. He braced both hands on the sleek frame and gave it a gentle test tug. It barely budged, but after a few seconds of rocking—up, then left, then right—it popped off the wall with a deep, satisfying thunk. The painting was heavier than he expected, but not unmanageable. He balanced it against his knee, steadying the glass with one hand.

Katherine’s face had shifted to open surprise, mouth a round O. He couldn’t tell if she was terrified, thrilled, or both.

“Trust me,” Andy said, and set off. The Master’s Suite had a floating staircase leading up to the third floor—an open-air observatory deck, with sleek recliners arranged side by side. He carried the painting up, careful not to knock the corners, the weight of it making his arms shake by the time he reached the top. He wondered if he looked like an idiot to any who would watch him. Did he really care all that much about a painting's desire to see the sunset?

Evidently, yes.

When he set her down, he propped the frame on the recliner, facing west. He noticed how odd it was, that Katherine stood straight in the painting, even though her canvas was laying down. But from this angle, Katherine could see everything: the dying sun, the line of the horizon, the gardens below, even the faint shadow of the volcano rising on the island’s far edge. She looked out, wonder flooding her face.

Andy pulled a recliner close, then sat beside her, arms on his knees, both of them watching the sky shift from gold to indigo.

“I figured you’d like this,” he said, after a minute. “I was thinking about it last night. You probably haven’t seen the sky in—what, fourteen years?” He glanced at her, and she nodded, slow and solemn.

He leaned back, staring up as the first stars bled through the dark. “I always liked the night. When I was a kid, I thought the moon was following me. I told everyone it was my friend, and nobody ever argued. They just let me believe it.” Laura had been there, too. But this wasn’t about her.

Katherine’s eyes went soft, and she reached one hand toward him, then pressed her palm to the glass in a kind of blessing.

He laughed, and they watched together as the sun slowly sank beneath the horizon, the sky painted in darker shades of night. Andy found himself watching Katherine’s reaction. She watched the sky darken, the first stars twinkle, her face full of wonder and awe, tears glittering on her cheeks, every so often touching the glass as if **** to touch the sky.

When the sky was fully dark, Andy stood, stretched, then glanced at her. “Want to stay up here tonight?” he asked. “I’ll bring you back in the morning.”

Katherine nodded, urgent, her painted cheeks flushed with gratitude. She pressed both hands to the edge of the frame, placing her hands on her heart, then straightening her arms towards him. She smiled warmly, gratefully.

Andy smiled, awkward and shy. “You’re welcome,” he said, and meant it.

He left her there, framed by the stars, and padded back down to the Suite. He felt lighter, for the first time in days—a man who’d done something good, something real, even if it only mattered to a painting and himself.

He poured a glass of water, checked the time, and was halfway through setting the alarm when the elevator buzzer went off. He looked up, expecting the night’s visitor, another twist in the script.

But for now, the Suite was warm, the world was wide, and there was a woman in a painting upstairs who owed him nothing, but smiled just for him. That, he decided, was enough.