Into the Night

Andy cut across the cooling sand, not straight into the crowd but toward the dark where the fire’s noise thinned. Matt Hawkins was already there, two chairs bracketed out from the nearest group, angled for a better view of the ocean or maybe just of the night. Andy didn’t bother asking if the empty one was taken. He settled into it, a welcome silence hanging between them, and found a cold glass already waiting in the cupholder between.

“Hope you don’t mind,” Matt said, raising his own. “I figured you’d show up eventually. Or at least, it seemed more likely than Kevin making a reappearance tonight.”

Andy grinned, lifting the glass. “He’s probably out there somewhere right now, workshopping a theory about why any campaign worth its salt never fully ends without a legendary weapon, a fight against a god, and someone’s sacrifice.”

Matt laughed—a sharp, unguarded sound. “Absolutely. I could see it.” He took a sip, nodded, approving. “I’m half convinced if I left for the restroom right now, I’d come back to find him already holding court and neither of us would be surprised.”

“Maybe even a little relieved,” Andy said, and they both sipped at their drinks for a while, listening to the fire’s voice spiral up and down the beach.

The lull was a good one. Matt broke it first, tapping his glass against the armrest before shifting in his seat. “I still can’t get over that wall,” he said, tone teasing. “You didn’t even use the holds. Just started punching your way straight up the stone like it owed you money.”

Andy grinned, recalling the heat of the moment, the splash of adrenaline. “That’s one way to put it. I panicked, honestly—figured brute force would get me there faster than admitting I had no idea what I was doing up there. Turns out ‘climbing technique’ is optional if you’re willing to make your own handholds. Norah would be upset at me.”

Matt’s face went soft, the edge of his mouth curling. “Meanwhile I’m over there doing it the boring, practiced way, and Kevin’s grinding through it like he’s personally offended by gravity. You made the rest of us look like we were overthinking it.”

“Is that so,” Andy said, feigning modesty.

Matt leaned back, stretching his legs. “The wall was the only part of the day that made sense to me. One clear job, a line to the top, no second-guessing if you’re doing it right.” His voice gentled, losing some of its usual anchor. “Most of this week keeps catching me sideways.”

Andy let the quiet stretch. He didn’t need to prompt Matt further; the man always took his own time, and when he was ready, it landed solid.

Matt rolled his glass in his palm. “I keep thinking about what Kevin said, out in the Inner Gardens, about how you should always know what part someone else might be quietly writing for you. He made it sound like a warning, but it’s not a bad trick. I’ve tried to run it on myself. Who do I look like from the outside, what’s the role I’m playing even when I think I’m offstage.” He let out a short breath, a half-laugh. “I haven’t solved it. But I know I’m thinking about it.”

“You look like you,” Andy said, without trying for profundity. “That’s the reason we’re sitting here, isn’t it?”

Matt seemed genuinely surprised by that. “I guess so.”

Andy didn’t let the moment close. “Listen, I meant to say something back at breakfast, and I just lost the thread. I know we only teamed up for one event, and the odds of this happening again are whatever, but—meeting you this week has meant more than I would’ve guessed. I know people always say things like ‘open invite’ or ‘let’s keep in touch,’ but I mean it. If you want to write, if you ever need to talk something out, it’s not just a gesture. I’ll answer.”

Matt’s face went blank for a beat, not insulted but clearly thrown. He picked up his drink, took a measured sip. Then he nodded, the movement deliberate, maybe even a little fierce. “I appreciate it,” he said. He paused, thinking. “You don’t seem like a man who says things he doesn’t mean.”

Andy tried to wave him off, but Matt raised a finger, refusing the dodge. “No, don’t let it slide past like it’s nothing. I spend a lot of time surrounded by people who claim they will do a thing for you and then pretend nothing was said at all. I respect the opposite, especially when it’s rare.” He exhaled, a slow release. “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” Andy said, and they let the moment sit, unforced.

A minute or two later, Sarah Hawkins drifted in from the edge of the party, drawn over by the sound of Matt’s open laughter at something Andy said. She was carrying her own drink, the glass a shade emptier than the ones in their hands, and the smile she brought with her was one that didn’t look borrowed from anywhere.

Sarah stopped just short of them, studying Matt’s face with the care of someone who’s trying not to disrupt a spell. She seemed to catch something there that pleased her; she glanced at Andy, and her whole demeanor softened another notch.

“Andy,” she said, greeting him like an old friend rather than an acquaintance. “I heard you were the one who made Matt actually relax for the first time this trip.”

“That can’t possibly be true,” Andy said, smiling.

“It’s absolutely true,” Sarah replied. She settled herself onto the armrest of Matt’s chair, close enough to rest her hand on his shoulder. “I don’t know if you realize how long it’s been since I’ve seen him laugh like that.”

Matt didn’t look at her, but the way his hand came up to cover hers on his shoulder said plenty.

“Thank you,” Sarah said, not clarifying if it was for Andy, or for Matt, or for both of them at once.

Andy nodded, not wanting to overstep. He was about to say something—anything, maybe a joke about the drinks table or the relentless drama of the weekend—but then he felt the bond, the old, unmistakable signal of Laura’s approach.

He turned in his chair, already tracking her in the dark past the fire. She was walking alone with herself, but in the confident, almost weightless way she always moved when she was coming straight to him. She slid her bodies into the open chairs beside his, glancing between him and Matt, catching enough of the emotional residue to smile at both.

She didn’t say anything at first. Instead, she looked at Sarah Hawkins, and the two of them shared a quick, bright look. It was the kind of look you get after spending a whole afternoon together in a kitchen, arms covered in flour and sugar, having bonded in the unspoken language of shared task and stories told with hands as much as mouths. Andy caught the flavor of it instantly, and he could tell Matt did, too.

“Is it weird,” Laura said, “to feel like you know a person before you’ve even had a proper conversation with them?”

“Not at all,” Sarah said. “Some people, it just lands on you right away.”

“I like that,” Laura said, and the warmth in her voice made it clear she meant it.

Matt watched the exchange, then grinned at Andy. “You surround yourself with good people, you know that?”

Andy shrugged, not bothering with false humility. “I get lucky.”

Laura snorted, amused.

They were just settling into the comfort of four-way silence when, a few seats down the arc, Herman rose from his chair and called out for attention. His timing was perfect—nobody was left standing or halfway through a story, and every conversation wound down at once.

“Eyes this way,” he said, voice carrying across the fire. “I have an announcement, and it’s not about the whiskey shortage.”

He tipped his head toward the drinks table at the edge of the firelight, where Sam had already climbed up onto the wood and was working hard to balance herself among the half-empty bottles. The whole crowd turned to watch.

“May I present,” Herman said, “the Best Woman—best person, really—of the night. No offense, Andy Cooper.”

Sam teetered, then straightened, raising both hands in the air. “I’ll keep it short,” she said, “since most of you already know how this goes.”

The rest of the fire dropped silent, the moment swelling into a soft, electric pause. Andy could feel the energy spiraling out from Sam, across the sand, through every knot of people and then right back to the group at the edge.

Matt leaned in, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not sure if I want her to actually toast us or just light the table on fire.”

Andy smiled. “With Sam, it could go either way.”

Sam teetered on the edge of the drinks table, her bare toes gripping the sticky varnish between clusters of half-empty bottles. She let the silence draw a few extra seconds, chin up and one hand out like a conductor, until Liesa, standing just below her, reached up without looking and caught her wrist. It steadied them both.

“I have an announcement,” Sam declared, voice dipped a full octave into mock gravity. “It’s important, so if anyone’s not listening—” She let the line dangle, looked down at the tangle of faces turned her way, then blinked, abruptly off-script. “Shit, I forgot the words.” She dropped her head, cackled, and almost lost her balance again. Liesa’s hand didn’t let go.

Someone at the fire shouted, “You had one job!” A ripple of laughter ran the circle. Sam milked the pause, then hopped down, barely missing the ice bucket, and landed next to Liesa.

“Okay, no more bit. We’re getting married tonight,” she said, her voice steady now and very much her own. “Right here, in front of all of you. And if I’m allowed to make a second announcement, I want Andy standing up for me when it happens.” She looked at him, no theatrics, just a line drawn straight across the fire.

Andy was on his feet before she finished, and the current that ran through the group was something wilder than applause: delight, surprise, a flash of real happiness that came off the crowd like heat off the logs.

Liesa turned to scan the faces, found Norah on the opposite arc of the fire, and called across it. “Tabs? You too?” Her voice caught once in the middle, a hiccup of emotion she hadn’t meant to show.

Norah crossed the whole sandpit to Liesa’s side. Their hands met before either of them said a word, Norah’s grip a little stronger than usual, as if she was already bracing for the shock of it.

Neither Liesa nor Sam spelled out the rest. The rumor had gone through the circle long before tonight: the story of an anonymous benefactor, one who’d offered a full-on fairy tale wedding, a Host-grade goddess to officiate, even a dress that would, per the legend, “behave itself through vows and after.” The pitch was romantic, or at least theatrical, and Sam and Liesa had spent a week weighing it. In the end, they’d turned it down.

What Liesa had asked for, was only this: a real wedding, not one with a castle or a lens on it, just Sam and her and a fire and their own words. Nothing that could be ruined by a crowd or a slip, nothing where the moment belonged to anyone else. Just their family, as big and weird and messy as it was. They’d agreed, at the time, it was a little bit punk rock, but that was the entire point.

Somebody at the fire called out, “Wait, you’re not doing the whole goddess-and-veil thing?” Sam, still holding Liesa’s hand and half behind her, just cackled. “There’s nothing to tell, babe. We turned it down weeks ago. If you want the dress, you can have it.” Liesa snorted, “If you can get it off the mannequin, it’s yours,” and half the circle burst out laughing.

But not everyone was ready to let it slide. Erin, sitting on the rim of the ring, waited out the first crash of noise and cut in, her voice precise enough to land on every ear at once. “I’m not saying you need a castle,” she said, “but you deserve at least an hour that’s yours, not just whatever’s left over after everyone else finishes their story.” She was sharp, not angry, but there was something urgent behind it. “You spent two weeks helping with someone else’s wedding, making magic and flowers and a hundred little traditions, and you don’t even want—”

Sam let go of Liesa’s hand, turning so the light caught her face full-on. “What’s the part you want me to admit?” she said, gentle but unyielding. “That it could be bigger? That it could have a real dress and an aisle, and a Host in a funny hat to say the magic words? That we could have had it, if we’d asked?” Her voice dropped a notch. “I know. I know we could have. But it would never have felt like ours. Not if we weren’t the ones who made it.”

Erin’s mouth opened, then shut, as if she’d spent a week running this exact argument in her head and still hadn’t found the right answer. She looked at Liesa, then at Norah, then at the fire. Around the circle, a few voices chimed in, all on the same theme: this should be real, this should be official, you deserve at least the option.

Liesa didn’t back away from it. “Everyone I want here is here,” she said, her voice small but clear enough to slice through the last of the buzz. “I don’t want a second version in a bigger place. I don’t want an extra story for the record. I just want this, and for you to all be happy for us.” She caught Erin’s eye, not letting it go. “Please?”

Erin nodded, once. “Okay,” she said, and the whole tension in the ring let out at once, like a rope that didn’t have to hold anymore.

It was Herman who broke the new silence, already on his feet by the time anyone looked up. He set his drink on the sand, brushed the front of his shirt with a casual, theatrical little sweep, and stepped into the triangle between Sam, Liesa, and the fire.

“Not that anyone here is going to check my credentials,” Herman said, “but I am fully authorized to perform any and all ceremonies, mystical, secular, or… off-label. And from my experience, the people who care about the paperwork are rarely the ones standing at the altar. So.” He looked at Sam, then at Liesa. “You ready?”

Sam reached for Liesa’s hand again, and for the first time all night, it shook a little.

“Let’s do it,” Liesa said, not looking away.

Herman nodded. “Here’s how we’ll run it. Each of you gets a minute, tops, to say what you’re choosing, and who you’re choosing it with. No memorized vows, no found poetry. Just you, her, and the fire.” He shot a look at Sam. “If you need a prompt, I can improvise.”

Sam grinned, shaky but real. “I’ll try not to.”

He held up a finger, pausing for effect. “Norah, if you want to stand up, you should do it now.” Norah, who’d been holding Liesa’s elbow like a secret, joined them, standing a half step behind.

Herman didn’t perform a single flourish. He just turned to Sam. “Go ahead,” he said, soft.

Sam was not a person who ever looked unprepared, but she was now. “I don’t have a speech,” she said, “but I know what I want to say. Liesa, you are… you’re the first person I ever let see every version of me. And somehow you never tried to fix any of them, not even the loud ones, not even the weird. You just kept saying yes, every time, even when it didn’t make sense. I love you for that.” Her laugh snagged on the word, and her eyes shone wet. “And if I could say it in more languages, I would. But for now: you are the person I want to spend the rest of my life with.” She wiped her cheek, the gesture efficient, and reached for Liesa’s hand.

Liesa didn’t hesitate. “Has been a long, strange road,” she said, her accent thicker, “and there were a lot of times I thought I would never get to say this. Not even in a dream.” She smiled, then, the kind of smile Andy had only ever seen once, years ago. “Told myself I wouldn’t hope for this, but now I can. I love you, Sam, and I want all of your versions, every day, forever.” She took Sam’s hand with both of hers, like she was holding something breakable. “You are my schat.”

Herman didn’t draw it out. “Then by the ancient power vested in me by common sense and by the literal fact of being here, I pronounce you as married as anyone standing on this beach with me has ever been.” He reached for their hands, set them together, and leaned in just close enough for only the two of them to hear the next words. “Be happy, ladies. That’s the only rule.”

Sam kissed Liesa before the end of the last line, hands laced tight, and the whole fire exploded in noise. Andy felt himself swept up, arms reaching for both of them, and he wasn’t alone—Norah’s laugh was a howl beside his ear, and Erin, laughing and crying at once, wrapped them in an accidental group hug that knocked Sam back a half step.

The cheer rolled the length of the beach. Somebody fired off a sparkler into the night, which shot sideways into the sand and set a plastic fork on fire, but nobody cared. Even the birds seemed to catch the current, a flock of them bursting up from the dark water and spiraling overhead before scattering east. Andy overheard someone ask “Wait, did Herman just marry all of us?” and chuckled.

The noise didn’t fade so much as change color, the spike of Sam and Liesa’s kiss snapping into something looser, brighter, and entirely impossible to control. The circle, which had already pressed close for the vows, now surged forward in a tide of hugs, applause, shouted congratulations, and at least one airborne plastic cup. Someone behind Andy tried to start a round of “Here Comes the Bride” but got no further than three syllables before dissolving into laughter.

Dawn was first through the crush, cutting a straight line between two shoulder-high contestants and sweeping Liesa into a hug so tight her feet left the sand. “You did it, Waffle!” Dawn whispered, her voice cracked and high and so close to crying that Andy felt his own chest tighten in sympathy. “You really did it.” Liesa, not quite steady, let herself be lifted and clung on with the both arms, laughing into the side of Dawn’s neck.

As if by arrangement, Erin scrambled back up onto the drinks table. She waited for the fire to subside, then raised her glass—iced tea, alas—and looked straight at Sam and Liesa.

“I want to say,” Erin called, “that I was wrong.” She let the silence work for her, slow and deliberate. “I thought you should want the whole world to see you get married, to make it official, make it huge. But you didn’t. You turned down every excuse to make it more, and you still ended up more married than anyone I’ve ever seen.” Her voice wobbled, just once, before she pressed on: “I have never in my life been so glad to lose an argument this badly. So—here’s to getting exactly who you want, and exactly how you want it.” She tipped her glass and the rest of the fire—every glass, cup, and plastic bottle—rose and answered.

The noise was like a living thing, waves of it. Liesa, breathless, managed to duck out of Dawn’s grip just in time for Norah to catch her by the hand and pull her into a slow, easy turn around the edge of the fire. It wasn’t quite dancing, more a kind of gentle, unhurried orbit, but the movement was all confidence and no apology.

Somewhere on the far side of the fire, a drum appeared—Andy had no idea from where or who started it. The beat threaded through the party, the ring of guests shifting from group hug to something more like a dance floor. Shoes vanished, drinks swapped hands, and the party tipped over the edge into a real reception: wild, happy, messy in every way except the ones that mattered.

Sam barely had time to protest before she was yanked in by both wrists, the smile on her face so wide and surprised that Andy found himself grinning just to look at her. He watched as Liesa was swept into the orbit, laugh rising above the din more than once, and for a second the entire rest of the world vanished, replaced by the electric push and pull of this group.

Andy hung back, arms crossed over his chest, just watching. He hadn’t realized until this moment how much the night had been building to this, how many small things had worked in service of it—how everyone, in some way, had chosen to show up for Sam and Liesa in the exact way they needed, not the way the world would have picked.

He saw it land for Sam, too. She caught his gaze from across the fire, mid-spin, and her smile changed—not the goofy, party-face one, but the real one she wore on the rare mornings she made it into the café before dawn. She didn’t break stride, but as the circle came around, she caught Liesa’s hand, then Andy’s, and pulled both of them off the line and into a looser, private orbit.

“I’m stealing you,” Sam announced, half-shouting in Andy’s ear as the music kicked up behind them. “Don’t ask where we’re going, just walk.” Liesa let herself be pulled, her feet barely touching the sand. The three of them peeled off down the shadow curve of the beach, the fire’s warmth fading behind them with every step, until they were swallowed by the dark and the only sound left was the distant drum and the soft hush of the waves.

They walked without saying a word, the three of them, until the fire was only a red throb behind them and even the pulse of the drum was barely a rumor on the breeze. The sand here was soft, cold at the skin, and when Andy stopped it was with both feet braced against the slow slope of the tide line. The moon cut a bright stripe out of the black, throwing the world into two pieces: sky and sea, with the three of them balanced right at the edge.

Andy started to say something and just laughed instead, the sound raw and real in the hush. “Sorry, I just—” He rubbed both hands down his face, like he could scrub the day out and start over. “You’re married. I stood up for you. For both of you. And I still can’t believe either half of that.”

Sam, grinning, set her hands on her hips. “It’s a lot to process,” she allowed. “You want us to do a slow recap? We can start with the dance.”

Andy shook his head. “No, it’s—” He stopped, turning to look at Liesa. “I’m just proud. For real.”

Liesa smiled back, but then something in her went still, like the surface of a pool when the wind stops. “Can I ask you a question?” she said, voice barely above the wash of the water. “Really ask?”

Andy nodded. “Anything.”

She chewed the corner of her mouth, picking her words. “I know you say you wanted this. That you were fine with it, from the beginning. But now that it’s real—now that I’m really, really hers, as much as I am yours—are you still sure? Or did some small part of you ever want me to choose?” Her face stayed calm, but her hands clenched in front of her, fingers twined.

Andy didn’t wait. “No,” he said. “Not for one second. You asked me for this before anyone else did, and I blessed it the first time you said her name. And watching you two tonight was—” He blew out a breath, the cold catching it. “It was one of the best things I’ve ever seen.”

Sam, who’d held the line so far, let herself jump in. “Hey. I know we’re all new to polyamory here, but nothing about tonight changes anything between us, Liesa. You’re just as much mine as you were yesterday, and you’re just as much his. If anything, this just makes it legal. Or whatever counts as legal on this island.” She thumped Andy’s shoulder, gentle, then added: “And I wouldn’t have wanted anyone else standing up with me. Not ever.”

Liesa’s breath shivered out, visible in the dark. “I know. I did. I just needed to hear it out loud.”

Sam let the quiet hold for one beat, then, true to form, ruined it on purpose: “Now that’s settled, Andy, you still owe me that renegotiation. Don’t think I forgot.”

Andy’s brow furrowed, trying to remember. “What renegotiation?”

“The next time the three of us are together,” Sam said, “you need to stop playing it safe and just go full Andi, Koala Warrior Princess. I want to see how fast Liesa gets competitive about it when the stakes are that good.”

Andy went red instantly. “You are never, ever going to let that nickname die, are you?”

Sam’s eyes flashed. “Never.” She grinned at Liesa. “Back me up here, Waffle.”

Liesa laughed, bright and clear and sharper than the cold. “I’d like to see it, actually. Maybe even see the negotiation in real time.”

Andy groaned, but there was no heat behind it. He just surrendered, opening his arms and letting both women in at once. They closed the gap together, Liesa on his left, Sam on his right, and for a long, perfect moment they held there, arms wrapped tight, three bodies in a single knot against the dark.

“I love you both,” Andy said, not bothering to qualify it. “And I’ve never been prouder of either of you than I am tonight.”

Sam’s laugh was quiet, but the hug got even tighter. “We love you too, Koala.”

They let the night hold them for a minute more before they let go. When they did, the air felt different—warmer, or maybe just full.

“Ready to go back?” Sam asked.

Liesa nodded, brushing a tear from her cheek with a knuckle. “Ready.”

Andy didn’t answer, but he smiled, and it was the kind of smile that would last the whole walk back to the fire.

They made the climb back up the beach together, Andy, Sam, and Liesa, the noise of the party swelling in again before the fire’s light hit them full. Sam and Liesa stayed locked at the fingers until the crowd itself forced them apart—Sam getting waylaid by two competing dance partners, Liesa caught by the shoulder in a hug that didn’t ask for permission. Even as Andy broke off to the edge, neither let go fully, each casting a look back over their shoulder, like the last word in a good story that had to wait for the next chapter.

Sam bumped Andy with her shoulder on her way past, so soft only he heard the line: “Thanks for standing up with me, even if you didn’t get to give a speech.” Andy grinned, told her he never did speeches at weddings, and watched as the crowd reeled her back in.

Liesa, a few steps ahead, was already being hauled into another circle by Dawn and Chloe, but she tossed a line back over her shoulder: “Find something to do besides watching us all night, will you?” She didn’t wait for an answer. The sound of her laugh cut through the fire’s crackle, bright enough that Andy felt it land all the way up his spine.

He watched them go, then drifted out to the perimeter of the fire, not in a hurry to step back in. The sky above was dark and very full, the moon sharp, the constellations clean and geometric. The party noise, all voices and beat and glass-on-glass, was a pleasant haze that didn’t ask anything from him. Andy dropped to a patch of dry sand, elbows on his knees, and just let the fatigue wash up to meet the warmth.

It took a long time for the noise to fade into something like ordinary. Even after the drum went quiet and the stories had all been told twice, people kept finding new reasons to huddle closer to the fire, to keep the moment from dissolving. Andy stayed where he was, letting the scene play out, until he felt a tug in the back of his head—the old, unmistakable bond, the one that said: she’s looking for you.

Laura stood on the other side of the fire, not exactly waiting, but watching him in stereo with a focus that made the crowd around her look slightly out of phase. When their eyes met, she tipped her heads once, a single, perfect gesture, and held them there until Andy was back on his feet.

He didn’t need to ask where they were going. He cut a line around the edge of the fire, past the last of the laughing, glass-raising knots of people, and followed her into the dark. They walked together without words, past the last circle of torchlight, out onto the sand where the only sound was the hush of the waves and the faint, steady breathing of the doubled woman beside him.

When they’d gone far enough that the fire was just a red echo on the horizon, Laura stopped, both of her at once. One body reached for Andy’s hand, the other wrapped her own arms tight around her shoulders.

For a minute, neither of them said anything. Then Laura asked, “Who is the dragon girl? I thought she was from another season, but Dawn and Emi mentioned she’s with us?”

Andy didn’t have to ask who. “Sumiku,” he said. “She’s—she was—an eliminated Contestant, like Katherine. She spent centuries as a mug, in the kitchen. I found her this morning and used Coauthor to bring her back, same as I did with Katherine.” He shrugged. “She’s part of the harem now. She wanted it, and she needs it due to one of her transformations.”

Laura was quiet, both bodies, but the hand in Andy’s didn’t let go. She looked up at the stars, then at the water, and didn’t ask a follow-up.

Andy watched her, trying to guess what she was feeling, but she didn’t look upset. She looked like she was counting.

He knew the count, roughly, without her saying it—Riley had told him once what she’d kept track of before she let herself believe any of it was real: the First Challenge and the Fourth, both times he’d twisted away from an elimination; Laura herself, back from the river; Katherine, free of the painting. Four, and then a fifth when he brought back JJ. Laura had never told him she was keeping the same list. She didn’t tell him now, either—just added one more to it, silently, and let her face settle instead of asking him to explain the rules he’d never given her.

Andy’s heart squeezed in a funny way. He almost said I’m sorry, but stopped himself. Instead, he said, “I think I know what you’re thinking, Laura.”

A faint smile flickered on both her mouths.

Then, in stereo, she said: “I bought a third Dream Date.”

Andy blinked. “When?”

“This morning. At the Commissary. The last one wasn’t enough. Whatever happens tomorrow, I wanted at least one more.” She let go of his hand, then took it again, tighter. “That’s the real reason I pulled you out here.”

Andy turned this over for a few breaths, then asked, “What did you ask for this time? The Dream House again?”

Laura shook her heads, smiling slightly. “No. I already did that. I told Arabella to tune it differently: not to what I wanted, not to what either of us would pick, but to what you would want. Whatever your own subconscious, or whatever you can’t admit, would dream up for us.”

Andy thought about this. “So neither of us will know what’s coming until we’re inside?”

“That’s exactly it,” Laura said, both bodies at once. “And I need it that way. Even if it’s a disaster, or if it’s nothing.”

Andy felt a surge of something that was not quite relief, not quite joy. He reached out, took a hand from each of Laura’s bodies, and squeezed.

“Okay,” he said. “Whatever it turns out to be. I want it too.”

They stood together in the dark, holding on and letting the quiet fill in everything they didn’t need to say. The fire was a memory behind them, the darkness blurring ahead.

And when they turned to face it, they did so together, step for step.