Visitations, Part 1

Chapter VIII: Visitations

Arabella was a connoisseur of spectacle, so she timed the opening tour for maximum dramatic effect. The eight women—herded more than led, still raw from the events of the day—filed into the main lobby in the faintly accusatory silence of people who’d seen too much. The Host’s heels rang sharp echoes from the vast expanse of marble. Up ahead, a triple-layered chandelier scattered amber flecks of light over the polished floor, catching the women’s faces in cinematic, shifting patterns: the outline of Norah’s new chest, the glint in Sam’s blue hair, the six-armed semaphore of Emi clutching her own elbows.

Every inch of the lobby had been calculated to make a person feel small and slightly out of place. Gigantic palms reached up toward a ceiling that disappeared into darkness; a sweeping staircase—pointless, as there were no upper floors visible—curled around the periphery, its glass balustrade gleaming like an exhibit at a tech convention. On the far wall, a single digital screen flickered to life, displaying a leaderboard in crisp, sans-serif type.

Sam - 2 VP - 2500 BP
Claire - 0 VP - 2000 BP
Dawn - 0 VP - 2000 BP
Emi- 0 VP - 2000 BP
Liesa - 0 VP - 2000 BP
Marissa - 0 VP - 1500 BP
Erin - 0 VP - 1000 BP
Norah - 0 VP - 1000 BP

Arabella made a production of turning to face the group, her dress shimmering a little in the lobby’s golden light. “Ladies,” she said, “welcome to the heart of The HH.”

She waited, letting the phrase breathe. The women clustered together, an accidental diagram of discomfort. Emi hunched at the rear, trying to keep her arms contained. Claire, whose transformation was invisible but absolute, stood just behind Marissa, her notebook clamped to her chest like a shield. Sam, first in line, seemed to enjoy the bravado of walking point, but her eyes kept flicking back to check on the others. Even Liesa, normally unflappable, stuck to the group’s edge, arms folded in rigid self-control.

Arabella pointed up at the screen. “Here is where you will monitor your progress. As I mentioned, Victory Points are awarded for exceptional performance in challenges, and sometimes for creativity in…” She arched a brow, “extracurricular interactions with Andy. Bonus Points accumulate through Audience popularity and personal initiative.” The way she pronounced the word “Audience” made it clear she was talking about something more than a focus group, but less than a deity.

The contestants looked up. The scoreboard was already populated. On the left, each woman’s name floated above a stylized avatar. Andy’s name ran in a band across the top, marked “MASTER ANDY COOPER.” Below that, Sam’s icon showed 2 VP, while the others were a uniform sea of zeros. To the left of each name stood a little pixel avatar. Someone—probably a sadist in the production office—had chosen the avatars with just enough accuracy to sting: Norah’s had comically exaggerated cleavage, Emi’s bristled with extra arms, and Marissa’s wore a blouse so tight it could have been painted on.

Norah scowled. “Is there a trophy for most humiliated?”

Arabella smiled, immune to the jab. “There are many trophies, but only one Wish.” She let the word hang, just long enough for the group to remember what they were all here for.

Sam stared at her own line on the board. “Why do I already have points?” She turned to Arabella. “I haven’t even done anything yet.”

“You hugged Andy,” the Host said. “You were the first to do so. First actions receive double points, as a reward for breaking the ice and… experimentation.”

Sam blinked, then snorted. “So being a decent human gets you points here? Revolutionary.”

Marissa was clinical. “May I see the rest of the scoring logic?” she asked, as if she could audit the system into revealing its underlying trauma.

Arabella gestured toward a brushed steel box that resembled a touchscreen ATM at the far end of the lobby. “You may use the Commissary at any time. It is an interactive terminal where you can review the scoring tables, read updates, and, when you have accrued sufficient Bonus Points, purchase… enhancements or advantages for the next round.” She paused, smiling. “Or for personal use.”

Erin let out a quiet, strangled sound that could have been either derision or despair. “Great. They built a casino for our souls.”

Arabella ignored the remark, floating ahead of the group with an effortless confidence. “Let’s continue,” she said. “You’ll want to see your rooms before dinner.”

They followed, a slow-moving clot of wariness, down a corridor lined with floor-to-ceiling mirrors. The reflections were disorienting—like watching their transformations echo endlessly into the distance. Emi tried to avoid her own gaze, but her middle right hand kept fluttering up to tuck her hair behind her ear, the gesture uncanny and childlike in its newness. The fact it would then proceed to grope her breasts shattered the illusion immediately and she gasped. Liesa watched her with wary sympathy, while Norah, still clutching the edges of her blouse to corral her new chest, glared at every passing reflective surface as if it had personally betrayed her.

The corridor terminated in a small atrium, a circle of white marble benches around a gently gurgling fountain. Four doors, each set with a gleaming metal number, opened off the space: 5, 69, 80, and 143. Arabella stopped in the center, pivoted on one heel, and held up her hands.

“These are your guest rooms. As stated earlier, each pair will share a suite—one king-sized bed, two wardrobes, a private bath. Here are your assignments.” She read them from memory, but with a flourish that suggested she’d picked each pair for maximum narrative tension. “Room 5: Claire and Marissa. Room 69: Liesa and Dawn. Room 80: Emi and Norah. Room 143: Erin and Sam.”

She waited. The group digested this in silence.

It was Norah who broke first. “If these are all on one hallway, how does the numbering work?”

Arabella’s face was perfectly blank. “That is a mystery for the ages, Norah.” She pointed at Room 80. “Your wardrobe is already adjusted for your transformation.”

The assignment landed with more **** than the physical changes had. Claire glanced sideways at Marissa, then nodded, as if resigning herself to the comfort of silence. Dawn let out a tiny, involuntary squeak at the idea of sharing a bed with Liesa, but the Belgian offered a small, reassuring smile that seemed to settle her. Emi looked at Norah, then down at her own hands, unsure whether to apologize or just keep her distance. Norah stared at Emi’s wandering hands in absolute horror.

Sam shot Erin a look of concern, but Erin’s face was closed off, arms folded, her entire body one sharp angle of refusal. For a second, Sam reached as if to offer comfort, but the memory of her own transformation—the compulsive need for Andy’s touch—stayed her hand.

Arabella waited until the awkwardness reached its peak, then clapped her hands with a warm smile, the sound sharp and oddly final. “Unpack, explore, freshen up. I will meet you here in fifteen minutes and show you the amenities. Dinner is in thirty minutes in the Banquet Hall. I recommend you all show up hungry. There will be much to discuss.”

She glided away, leaving the group alone in the atrium.

The women stood there for a moment, unsure whether to break into their assigned pairs or rebel against the geometry of the room. Liesa, perhaps to prove she could take the edge off anything, gave a low whistle and gestured at Room 69. “We are first, schat,” she said to Dawn, who giggled nervously and darted in behind her, as if afraid she’d be left in the hallway alone.

Emi stood in front of her own door, arms wrapped so tight around her middle that three sets of hands overlapped. Norah, uncharacteristically gentle, reached out and touched Emi’s shoulder. “If you need help with anything,” she said, “just… ask.” She tried to make it sound sarcastic, but the words came out soft, almost sisterly. Emi nodded, her eyes bright with gratitude.

Sam, left standing with Erin, gave her a long, searching look. “You okay?” she asked, voice pitched low.

Erin shook her head. “No. But I will be. Or I won’t.” She stared at the door to their room, then squared her shoulders and stepped inside.

Sam lingered in the atrium, glancing at the fountain. She seemed about to say something to the others, then thought better of it. She turned on her heel, blue hair flashing, and disappeared into 143.

Marissa, still in her clinical observer mode, turned to Claire. “Would you like to go in first?” she asked.

Claire smiled, then reached into her notebook and wrote something quickly. She tore out the page and handed it to Marissa.

The note read: I don’t snore. Do you?

Marissa smiled faintly, then shook her head. “No. But I do get up early.” She held the door for Claire, who stepped inside with a grateful nod.

Within moments, the atrium was empty.

The digital scoreboard glowed through the open doorway, casting a faint blue light over the marble. For a second, it almost seemed to pulse—like a heartbeat, or a countdown.

Upstairs, Andy was about to have an unexpected encounter with a living painting. Downstairs, eight women unpacked their new bodies and new lives, trying to map out the rules of a game they’d never agreed to play.

——

Fifteen minutes later, the women surfaced from their assigned rooms with the tentative air of crash survivors inspecting a wreck site. They had changed into clothes they had been provided, which were suspiciously identical to clothes they had at home. Only a few changes of clothes had been placed in their wardrobe; clearly, they were expected to purchase more. And Norah and Emi had discovered, to their surprise, that their clothes had been somehow altered to fit their new anatomy.

Claire emerged nearly at the same time as Dawn. While the librarian was wearing a soft cream cardigan, dark jeans, and black leather flats, the other woman had opted for full casual: a big, slouchy gray cardigan over pajama shorts and an old Chicago Bulls T-shirt, her black hair up in a messy bun, fuzzy pink slippers on her feet.

Marissa followed next, wearing a loose-fitting blouse left mostly unbuttoned to remain loose, showing a generous cleavage. She had put on black pants, and wore flats. Sam, who emerged shortly after, thought Marissa looked every inch the sexy psychologist.

Sam herself had picked jeans and a red flannel button-down shirt, worn sneakers on her feet. She left the room alongside Erin, who wore a modest military green top and well-tailored pants with ankle boots, like an armor.

Liesa and Emi emerged next, the former wearing a pretty white blouse and a long green skirt, with comfortable flats, while Emi wore an oversized dark sweater with black leggings and slip-on shoes.

Finally, Norah reluctantly slithered out of her room in a baggy New York Yankees sweatshirt, loose pants, and plain sneakers. She looked nothing like the corporate executive.

Arabella, in a gown the color of fresh blood, convened them in the lobby and wasted no time launching into the next item on the agenda.

“We’ll continue with the amenities tour,” she announced. “You’ll want to be acquainted with your new home before the games begin.”

She led them, single-file, down a marble corridor and into the hotel spa. It was only a few doors away, but the change in atmosphere was so abrupt it felt like stepping into a different climate: a door opened, and the air turned humid, thick with the herbal scent of eucalyptus and the subtle metallic tang of sea minerals. The spa itself was a showroom of tranquil excess—small mineral pool in the center, two glass-doored saunas glowing in the corners, a classic bubbling hot tub recessed into a back alcove, and half a dozen lounge chairs draped in white towels so plush they resembled the pelts of extinct snow beasts.

Arabella paused, letting them gawk. Norah lingered at the threshold, arms crossed so firmly over her chest it looked as though she were bracing for impact. She eyed the mineral pool as if calculating whether she’d sink or float in her new configuration.

Sam, who had not seemed especially shaken by anything so far, made a beeline for the hot tub. She dipped her hand in, grinned, then flashed a thumbs-up at the others. “This place is wasted on the emotionally stable,” she said.

Erin, trailing behind, looked at the spa with the same numb indifference she’d given everything since the transformation. “Does this count as therapy?” she asked Marissa, who stood beside her, calm as a botanist among rare specimens.

Marissa scanned the room, her gaze missing nothing. “It’s a form of sedation, but not a cure,” she said, then gestured at the massage menu displayed on the wall: “For Contestants And Master Only.” She smirked. “Perhaps worth a trial run.”

Dawn was already at the pool’s edge, peering into the clear water, as if looking for the secret to how the world worked. “It’s so pretty,” she whispered, mostly to herself, but Emi, standing a little behind her, echoed the sentiment with a soft, “Yeah.”

Liesa looked at the rows of product samples—oils, creams, masks—in the open shelving with the same curiosity she might have reserved for a foreign grocery store. “Is all of this free?” she asked Arabella.

“Free with admission,” Arabella replied, tone so dry it could have been legal fine print. “If you have requests, just speak to the attendant. The staff are discreet.” The women looked around, but could not see a single attendant. “Very discreet.” Arabella smiled.

The tour didn’t linger. Arabella led them out the other side of the spa, showed the small gym - quiet and unremarkable - and then led the women to the hotel’s inner gardens—a vast, open-air courtyard that somehow seemed to occupy more square footage than the building itself. The effect was immediate. The women inhaled in unison as if the new air were laced with endorphins. Paths of pale stone wound through riotously green lawns, interrupted by beds of wild orchids and obsidian boulders that radiated late-morning heat. In the branches above, unseen birds shrieked and sang in a dialect that belonged to no known latitude.

For a second, the group scattered, instincts overriding the last hours of strangeness. Claire stopped to trace a leaf with her fingertip, then wrote something in her notebook. Emi’s arms—now all six of them—spread out to touch everything she could reach: bark, flowers, even the smooth face of a sundial. Her breasts and groin, too. She winced and gasped, and **** them all to close around herself like the petals of a flower. Dawn ran her hands through the dew-wet grass at the base of a birch, smiling at the cool sensation.

Norah and Sam hung back for a moment. Norah looked at the distant volcano, looming over the island’s center. “That real?” she asked.

Sam shrugged. “I would not be surprised if it erupts, for drama.”

The only sign of the outside world was the faint hum of air conditioning units, and the windowed walls visible beyond the garden’s perimeter. Somewhere in the maze, a stone path forked off toward a small, windowless building, but the group paid it no mind.

After a lap through the gardens, Arabella shepherded them onward to the Banquet Hall. It was impossible to mistake for anything else. The room was built for a pageant of excess—high, beamed ceilings, polished teak floors, rows of tables set with snowy white linens and vases of tropical flowers. Along the far wall, an uninterrupted buffet stretched for at least thirty feet, every surface crowded with platters of sliced fruit, pyramids of pastries, eggs in every permutation, and the omnipresent, vaguely menacing display of whole roasted fish.

Arabella called the group to a stop at the entrance, then gestured with the authority of a maître d’. “The buffet is replenished three times daily. If you require special meals, just ask the staff—they will accommodate dietary restrictions, allergies, or religious needs.” She glanced at the nearest silver dome, under which a mountain of bacon glistened in the candlelight. “You’ll find coffee and tea service there, as well as a full bar. **** is permitted, but beware: the penalties for misconduct are steep.”

Norah’s eyes went immediately to the coffee urns. She poured herself a cup, black, and sipped. She looked surprised, then faintly disgusted. “It’s good,” she admitted. “That’s almost worse.”

Sam wasted no time and piled her plate with waffles, then loaded them with fruit and whipped cream. “Are there calories here, or is it all imaginary?” she asked.

Arabella smiled, shaking her head. “All too real, I’m afraid. But there is a fitness center that is open twenty-four hours if you feel the need to balance your indulgence.”

Emi looked at the food, then at her arms, and hesitated. She started to reach with her upper pair, then with her middle set, but in the end all six hovered above the table, trembling. She looked at Marissa for guidance.

Marissa calmly loaded a plate with smoked salmon and microgreens, then, with surgical grace, placed a fork in Emi’s uppermost right hand. “One pair at a time,” she said. “The others will learn to wait.”

Emi smiled in shaky relief, and took a cautious bite.

Dawn didn’t touch the buffet, instead hovering beside Liesa, who was methodically scanning every offering before making her selection. Dawn’s hands kept twitching toward the tongs, but she held them back, knuckles white with restraint.

The group spent several minutes gathering food and drink, the silence broken only by small, accidental clinks of cutlery or the polite murmur of background music piped in from invisible speakers. When everyone had settled with their plates at a long table near the window, Arabella took a moment to orient them to their new reality.

“Most of your activities, meals, and socializing will occur in these common areas,” she explained. “You are free to explore the resort at will—within the boundaries outlined in your room’s welcome packet. Please review those at your convenience.”

She gestured out the window, where the Annex was visible as a white building with colonnades and decorative arches. “In the Annex, you will find several stores and specialty shops. All purchases are made using Bonus Points. If you accrue enough points, you may purchase additional privileges, including temporary access to restricted areas.”

“Temporary?” asked Sam, a mouthful of waffle muffling her words.

Arabella’s smile was cryptic. “Temporary. For now. Permanent access is more expensive.”

Norah eyed her. “Is there a store that sells answers to what the hell is going on?”

Arabella just laughed, but didn’t answer.

The mood at the table was odd: not hostile, not exactly resigned, but something like the tension before a jury verdict. The women ate and watched each other, sizing up weaknesses, measuring alliances, wondering if anyone had already started keeping score. Every so often, a staff member glided in to refill a carafe or clear an empty plate. No one asked questions of the staff; the staff never spoke.

After a while, Arabella took her leave, promising to see them tomorrow. “Remember,” she said, “Andy is available if you wish to talk to him tonight. One at a time, ladies, and no more than thirty minutes each. You are not the only ones who are exhausted.” She floated away, red dress trailing like a warning.

As soon as she was gone, the table loosened.

Sam tried to strike up a conversation with Marissa about the coffee, but Marissa seemed more interested in quietly observing the group. Liesa tried to teach Dawn the correct technique for scooping honey from a jar without making a mess, while Emi practiced using her arms in rotation, frowning at the unfamiliar sensation. Erin sat in silence, pushing eggs around her plate, ignoring everyone and everything.

When the food was gone, the group drifted out to the terrace overlooking the gardens. The sun was bright but not harsh. For a moment, it almost felt like a real vacation—until Norah, her new silhouette casting a long and ludicrous shadow, sighed and said, “If this is a spa package, I want my money back.”

No one laughed, but no one disagreed.

In the gardens below, a single bird swooped down to steal a grape from an abandoned plate. The women watched it go, then Sam clapped her hands together. “Okay, so, do we do an icebreaker?” She looked around, grinning for effect. “Should we all go around and say something about ourselves, or does everyone here already know all the dirt?”

The table responded with a silence so loaded it could have been a lawsuit.

Dawn, determined to fill any awkward gap, started pouring water into the glasses—left to right, not missing a single seat. “I think some of us might not know everything,” she said, glancing at Emi and Liesa. “I mean, you weren’t all friends before, right?”

Emi nodded, then tried to pick up her water glass with her top right hand. The grip was good, but the second set of arms immediately reached for it as well, and the glass spun in place, nearly flipping over. Emi blushed, then giggled. “Sorry,” she said, “still learning.”

Liesa tried to help by steadying the glass, but Emi’s lower arms grabbed Liesa’s hand by reflex, and for a second it looked like they were about to arm-wrestle. Then Emi let go, mortified. “Sorry. Again.”

Norah watched, unimpressed. “You’ll get the hang of it,” she said, “or you won’t. I guess that’s the point of this place.”

Sam leaned back in her chair. “Norah, is there anything you can’t turn into a bummer?”

“Not in my contract, no.”

Claire scribbled something in her notebook, then tore out a page and passed it to Sam. Sam read it, then snorted with laughter. “She says, ‘If we have to do an icebreaker, can it be Two Truths and a Lie? I’ll start: One, I once read the entire unabridged Ulysses in a weekend. Two, I have been in love exactly once. Three, I can recite the periodic table backwards.’”

Sam grinned and looked at the others. “Anyone want to guess the lie?”

Marissa smiled, just barely. “You can’t recite the periodic table backwards.”

Claire nodded, then tapped her notebook with satisfaction. Sam looked at her, surprised. “So, you’ve been in love? Wait. Was it Andy?”

Claire blushed and shrugged. Her eyes were suddenly sad.

Liesa looked at Sam, then at Claire, and said, “That is sad, I think. But maybe here, things change.” She winked. “For all of us, yes?”

Dawn offered up a shy smile, then, emboldened, said, “I’ll go. Two Truths and a Lie: One, I once met Barack Obama. Two, I can cook over fifty Puerto Rican dishes. Three, I’m a virgin.” She looked at the table, eyes wide, daring someone to guess.

Erin, who had not said a word all night, spoke up. “You didn’t meet Obama.”

Dawn shook her head. “No, I did, actually, at a campaign rally. The lie is… I don’t know fifty dishes.” She looked around, beaming. “I wish I did.”

Norah rolled her eyes. “Congratulations. You’re more pure than the tap water here.”

Dawn flushed but kept smiling.

As the evening progressed, the conversation loosened, though not by much. Sam and Liesa carried most of it, with Sam tossing out stories about college parties, barista wars, and her brother’s disastrous attempts at brewing beer. Liesa responded with stories from Belgium—art school, sketching strangers on trains, getting locked in the Antwerp Zoo overnight. Even Emi chimed in, mostly with soft “me toos” and giggles, though she still struggled to control her six hands, especially with utensils.

Every so often, Marissa would ask a question that sounded innocent but carried a therapist’s weight. “How are you finding the adjustments?” she asked Emi, who froze and then blushed as two of her hands tangled in her hair.

“It’s… overwhelming, but not as bad as I thought,” Emi said. “It’s weird—I keep thinking I’ll wake up and it’ll be gone, but I think… I’m getting used to it. I guess the body adapts?”

Marissa nodded. “It does. Often faster than the mind.”

She turned to Erin, who sat unmoving, arms crossed, lips a thin line. “How are you holding up?” she asked, voice gentle.

Erin stared at her, then at the plate, then back at Marissa. “I’m not,” she said. “But that’s not your problem.”

Marissa nodded, as if that answer was exactly what she’d expected.

Dawn, meanwhile, seemed to grow more anxious with each minute. She kept getting up to clear plates, refill water, or retrieve extra napkins for anyone who even looked like they might need one. Every time she left the table, she returned faster, more flustered, her hands shaking a little more each time.

The breaking point came when some of the women grabbed coffee or tea. Dawn’s left eye twitched. She waited a full thirty seconds, then shot to her feet. She vanished into the kitchen. No one spoke for a while, the silence a living thing that crept up and down the table. Sam tried to make a joke—“Maybe she’ll find a mug with Andy’s face on it”—but it landed flat.

Minutes passed. Then, just as Emi tried to reach for the carafe with all three right hands at once, Dawn reappeared, walking as if to her own execution.

She held a single mug, filled with tea. The mug was not just inappropriate—it was a work of surrealist pornography. It was shaped like a woman’s torso, with an impossible rack of breasts at the front, nipples painted in shiny pink glaze. Every time Dawn lifted the mug, the breasts jiggled slightly. Dawn’s face was scarlet.

“This was the only one the cook gave me,” Dawn said, voice high and trembling. “I’m sorry. I just… ” and she ran out of the hall, leaving the doors swinging behind her.

No one said anything for a long time. Even Norah looked rattled.

Claire reached for her notebook, wrote a line, then held it out so everyone could see: We are all broken, in our own way.

Marissa read it and nodded. “Yes,” she said, softly. “But at least we are not alone.”

Later in the evening, the Banquet Hall took on a softer, less clinical air. The women had piled all evidence of the meal on a cart designated for that purpose, leaving only the ghostly scent of sugar and coffee, and the night outside the windows was so deep it blurred the line between inside and out. Norah sat alone at the far end of the hall, working her way through a French press of black coffee, eyes unfocused on the wall.

At a table by the windows, Sam and Claire sat in the hush of mutual exhaustion. Neither was eating, neither had a drink. It would have been peaceful, if not for the way Sam kept darting glances at Claire—open, probing, almost aggressive in their honesty.

“So,” Sam said, after a long silence. “Are you going to tell me what’s actually going on between you and Andy, or do I have to keep guessing?”

Claire, surprised, looked up from her lap. She fumbled for her notebook, scribbled a quick line, then slid it across the table. Sam read:

It’s nothing. He was my friend.

Sam arched an eyebrow. “That’s not what it looks like. I saw the way you look at him. I saw the way he looks at you. It’s not nothing.”

Claire hesitated, then wrote again.

It was high school. I was oblivious. I thought he wanted to be my friend. I think I broke his heart.

Sam read, then snorted. “That tracks. You know he spent two years pining after you, right?”

Claire shook her head, eyes wide. She reached for the notebook again.

Nobody ever told me. I’m not good at… this. The whole feelings thing. I miss things.

Sam leaned in, her voice softer. “Yeah, you’re not the only one here who’s missed a few cues, I think. But I think you owe it to him to tell him. He’s walking around carrying all this shit, and you’re just…” She waved at Claire, as if to illustrate the contradiction between her calm exterior and the war inside.

Claire looked down, embarrassed, then wrote: He probably hates me now.

Sam shook her head, firm. “He doesn’t. He can’t. Don’t you know Andy at all? If you care about him—hell, even if you don’t—you should tell him the truth. I bet it’ll help.”

Claire started to write again, but stopped. Instead, she looked up, eyes searching Sam’s face.

Why do you care? Claire scribbled in tiny uncertain script.

Sam blinked. “Because he’s my best friend. And because I don’t want to watch either of you hurt more than you have to. Is that weird?”

Claire shook her head. She smiled—just barely—and then, with a trembling hand, wrote: Thank you.

The two sat in silence for a few more minutes. Claire seemed to be working up courage for something, but before she could act, the doors at the far end of the hall swung open.

Dawn entered, looking sheepish, still flushed from her mug incident. She hovered by the entrance, unsure whether to approach or hide. Sam saw her, and raised a hand in greeting. “Hey,” she called, “you okay?”

Dawn nodded, but the motion was jerky, unconvincing. “Yeah. Just embarrassed, I guess.”

Sam gestured to the empty seat. “Want to join us?”

Dawn sat, then stared at her own hands. “I didn’t think it would be like this,” she said, voice small. “I thought it would be a game, or a reality show, or… I don’t know. Not this.”

Sam reached across the table, squeezed Dawn’s hand. “It’s not just you. We’re all in over our heads. But maybe, if we stick together, we can make it less awful.”

Dawn smiled, grateful for the lifeline. “Thanks. I needed to hear that.”

At the window, Claire closed her notebook and stood up. She hovered for a second, looking from Sam to Dawn, then back. She looked like she wanted to say something, but couldn’t. Instead, she raised a hand in a wave, then walked quietly out of the hall.

Sam watched her go, a smile tugging at her lips. “She’s braver than she thinks,” Sam said.

Dawn nodded. “Or maybe we’re just stubborn.”

Sam laughed. “Little of column A, little of column B.”

They sat, just two people in a vast, empty room, the weight of the day settling over them like dust. The only sound was the distant, endless echo of ocean beyond the glass.

——

At a table near the window, Emi sat rigidly, shoulders hunched, arms crossed and recrossed over her chest. Six hands, all trembling in unison, clutched at her cardigan, sleeves, and the hem of her skirt, as if holding herself together was a full-time job. She had tried, several times, to pour herself a glass of water, but every attempt ended with one hand batting the glass away while another tried to right it, until the carafe was half empty and her lap was wet with spilled ice.

Marissa watched this process for several minutes, making no move to intervene, simply observing the cascade of expressions that crossed Emi’s face: shame, frustration, resignation, and a kind of stubborn humor that lingered in her half-smile even as the rest of her body rebelled.

Eventually, Marissa spoke. “Try using just the top set. Rest the others in your lap.”

Emi nodded, and with visible effort, planted her lower four hands firmly on her thighs. The top two reached for the glass—slow, deliberate, the way a child learns to use chopsticks. This time she managed to pour the water, only a small splash missing the rim when a lower pair twitched unexpectedly.

Marissa smiled. “Better. The others will learn to follow your lead, but you have to show them you’re in charge.”

Emi looked at her, surprised by the simplicity of the advice. “It feels like they’re not mine. Like I’m borrowing them from someone who doesn’t want to share.”

Marissa nodded, clinical but kind. “You’re still adjusting. But I’ve seen rapid improvement since this afternoon.”

Emi laughed, self-conscious. “You mean, I haven’t knocked over any girls lately?”

“Not that I’ve noticed.” Marissa leaned in, her expression softening. “I also noticed you’re more… here than you were when you first arrived.”

Emi looked down. “I disappear a lot,” she admitted. “In my head, I mean. Sometimes for hours. I’ve been that way since I was a kid, but it got worse after—” She stopped herself, eyes darting sideways.

“After Laura died?” Marissa finished for her, gentle.

Emi’s mouth dropped open. “How did you—?”

“Mr. Cooper—Andy—told me. A long time ago. I am his therapist. He just… needed someone to talk to.”

Emi absorbed this, twisting a napkin between three sets of fingers. “I thought he never talked about her. He always acted like she was just gone, like it was too big to even say out loud.”

Marissa shook her head. “Sometimes the only way to make it smaller is to let someone else carry part of it.”

Emi’s eyes shone with unshed tears. “That’s what I try to do, with my parents, and with my books, and my art. But it never goes away.”

Marissa nodded. “It won’t. But you can make more room for other things. Even when you’re not ready.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

Emi took a deep breath. “I want to get better at this. The arms, the—” she gestured vaguely, “—being present. But I don’t know if I can.”

“You can,” Marissa said, without hesitation. “But you have to want to stay here. Not drift away.”

Emi smiled, a genuine one. “I want to try. Will you help me?”

Marissa nodded. “Anytime. I’m off the clock, but I’m still a therapist at heart.”

Emi’s arms, all six of them, relaxed at once. “Thank you,” she said, and meant it.

——

Erin and Liesa stood beside the buffet and sampled from the leftover platters and pouring their own drinks. Erin went for the savory—cheeses, cured meats, olives so briny they stung the tongue. Liesa, in contrast, preferred the small desserts: chocolate mousse, eclairs, tiny tarts so sweet they made her teeth ache. They ate standing, facing the gardens.

“You know, we’re the only two here who actually dated him,” Liesa said, nodding toward the ceiling as if Andy hovered somewhere above. “That must mean something.”

Erin snorted. “It means we’re both gluttons for punishment. Or that we don’t learn from our mistakes.”

Liesa smiled, but it was a small one. “You really believe it was a mistake?”

Erin thought for a second. “Not at first. It was… interesting, while it lasted. But I think we were both using each other to avoid other shit. And when that stopped working, he bailed.”

Liesa took a bite of mousse, then licked the spoon clean. “I thought I had a reason for leaving the way I did, but now… I don’t know.”

“Maybe you were scared it would get real,” Erin said, without judgment.

“Maybe.” Liesa set down her spoon, staring at her reflection in the window. “The funny part is, when I see him again today, I feel nothing. Like I watch a heruitzending… how do you say… of an old TV show. But then later, after the transformatie… transformation, I tell him to tell me if he wants me. I never do that before. I was always one to run away.”

Erin nodded. “That’s what this place does, I think. It rips you out of your comfort zone and then laughs while you scramble to put yourself back together.”

Liesa turned, meeting Erin’s gaze. “And what about you? You don’t seem comfortable, either.”

Erin shrugged. “What do you think?” She said, more acidly than she wanted. “I don’t like being dependent on anyone. And now, thanks to Arabella, I literally can’t get off unless Andy is watching. It’s fucked up.”

Liesa laughed, surprised. “That is very… specific.”

“It’s humiliating,” Erin said. “They just want to make me suffer.”

Liesa nudged her with an elbow. “If we’re going to suffer, let’s at least suffer together.”

Erin smiled, genuine for the first time all night. “Deal.”

They stood side by side, silent but companionable, watching the empty garden.

——

Claire returned to the Banquet Hall and hovered in the doorway for a moment, then spotted Dawn, still in the same seat as before, hunched over a cup of chamomile tea. The room was mostly quiet, but the silence had grown companionable rather than awkward.

Claire made her way to the table, gestured at the empty seat across from Dawn, and waited for permission. Dawn looked up, smiled, and waved her in with a soft, “Of course! Please, sit.”

They shared a minute or two in wordless comfort, watching the reflected moon in the glass of the garden windows. Eventually, Norah stood from her solitary table, still carrying the faint whiff of cheap hotel coffee and a tension in her jaw that hadn’t loosened all evening.

She looked at the table, hesitated, then pulled up a chair and joined them. “Didn’t think I’d find the social club still open,” she said.

Dawn grinned. “Night owls.”

“Not a lot of incentive to sleep, Moreno,” Norah said. “Especially if your roommate creeps you out.”

Dawn giggled, her first real laugh since breakfast. “Who’s your roommate again?”

“Kim,” Norah replied. “I guess she’s sweet, like taffy, but did you see the arms? They don’t stay still. I don’t want to be groped while I try to sleep.”

Claire reached for her notebook, scribbled something, and slid it across. Dawn read aloud, “‘You could try duct tape?’” Then she looked at Claire, “Kidding, right?”

Claire shrugged, smiling faintly. Norah snorted.

For a while, the conversation drifted, grazing harmless topics: favorite city, best school lunch, weirdest hotel experience. Norah seemed to relax a little, her sarcasm losing its edge, replaced with a softer, almost confessional honesty.

“So,” Norah finally said, drumming her nails on the table, “I guess I should ask: is it weird that I’m the only one who can’t stand Cooper?”

Dawn’s eyes widened, but she just shook her head. “I don’t think so. Not everyone gets along. Also, Erin. But… is there a reason?”

Norah took a breath, then let it out. “He was my advisor. Well, sort of. I was interning at a company he mentored. I gave a big presentation in front of the whole team, and he tore my work apart in public. I know it sounds dumb, but he acted like he was better than me. Like he owned the place.” She stopped, looking from Dawn to Claire. “He humiliated me in front of my boss, my colleagues. It was my first job.”

Dawn considered this, then said, “That’s rough. I hate being called out in front of people. But maybe he didn’t mean it? Andy’s not… I don’t think he’s cruel.”

Norah shrugged, noncommittally. “Maybe. Maybe he’s just one of those guys who can’t help himself.”

Claire’s pen moved quickly. She turned the notebook to show: Sometimes people hurt us because they’re hurting, too.

Norah read it, and for a second, her face almost crumpled. Then she laughed, quietly. “Thanks, Dr. Phil.”

Dawn was thoughtful. “I think we’re all just trying to survive here. Maybe give it a day before writing him off?”

Norah nodded, silent. Then, after a beat, “I know I’m being a bitch about it. I just… I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be—” She glanced down, at her chest, the evidence of her transformation impossible to ignore. “I spent my whole life making myself into something I liked. Now I look in the mirror and it’s like I’m in someone else’s body.” She grimaced, her face looking disgusted. “A body he designed, apparently.”

Dawn reached across, squeezed Norah’s hand. “You’re still you. We all are.”

Norah didn’t let go right away. When she did, she looked at the two of them, sheepish. “Sorry for being such a downer. My therapist would be appalled.”

Claire scribbled again: At least you’ll have something new to talk about.

That got Dawn and Norah laughing, for real. Claire blinked for a moment, then joined them silently.

A little while later, Sam returned, her hair windblown, a look of tired satisfaction on her face. “He’s fine,” she said, answering Dawn’s unspoken question. “Maybe even better than fine. He needed a friend.”

Marissa nodded. “Then I believe it is my turn.” She stood, wished everyone goodnight and walked out of the Banquet Hall. The other women looked at each other, and knew no one would follow after, not for tonight. The conversation lulled, but no one seemed to mind.

When the big clock in the hall chimed eleven, Dawn yawned, stretched, and said, “We should probably sleep. Big day tomorrow, right?”

They all nodded, pushing back their chairs in unison.

At the doorway, Norah lingered. “Thanks,” she said, quietly, not looking at anyone in particular. “For not making me the villain.”

“You’re not,” said Sam. “Just don’t cackle.”

They dispersed to their rooms, the echo of their footsteps the only sound. Out in the corridor, the scoreboard glowed in the dark, names and numbers standing silent vigil.