Ordinary Hours

Riley spent the next hour walking the perimeter of the grounds, hoping to run off the edge of her own thoughts. She tried every shortcut—listening to the birds, watching the shadow of the clouds on the lawn, counting the trees by the Walk. Nothing cut the morning as much as she wanted. When she circled back toward the hotel, her hands were empty and she’d long since lost track of what she was supposed to be doing next.

The firepit by the main lawn was empty at this hour, usually, but today Norah sat there, hunched over the edge of a concrete ring, a stone’s throw from the hotel. Her feet were bare, her shoes standing at attention beside the chair, and for once, she was wearing gym shorts and a tank top. Riley had never seen the woman so… casual. She cradled a mug of coffee in both hands and stared at the dead ash inside the pit.

Riley almost turned around—of all the people she could talk to, or not talk to, Norah was the one who set off every caution flag. They’d spent a month circling each other, sometimes close, sometimes at an icy distance, never outright enemies but never on the same side of any argument for long. Riley wasn’t sure if she was walking into a fight or an ambush, or if Norah would even acknowledge her at all. She lingered at the edge of the paving, waiting for the other woman to notice.

Norah didn’t move, but her voice cut through the silence. “You coming to warm your hands or to warm your ego?” She didn’t look up, but a corner of her mouth moved, like she was holding in a secret.

Riley said, “Neither, actually,” and walked to the next bench, careful not to stand directly opposite her. She sat on the cold stone and pulled her knees up, heels hooked on the lowest rung. “Just needed a place to not be haunted.”

“Try the spa,” Norah suggested. “The steam room’s good for exorcising old ghosts.” Her words were dry, but she didn’t deliver them with any malice. She just kept looking at the pit, tapping her mug with her thumb like a metronome.

Riley said nothing, let the silence pool between them. The sun was higher now, and the dew on the grass steamed off in little halos. Norah finally broke. “You ever think about what you’d do if you could count the hours you had left? Not for yourself. For somebody else.” She finally looked at Riley, and there was something rawer than usual in her face. “I know it’s an odd question.”

Riley barked a short laugh, incredulous. But Norah’s question sat there, stubborn, refusing to die. So she considered the ask. It was weird, coming from Norah—the woman who was all backbone, who never admitted a crack in her logic even when she’d clearly lost the thread. Maybe that was why it landed. “Why are you asking me?”

Norah shrugged, a small gesture. “You’re the only one who doesn’t try to make everything pretty when it isn’t.” She swirled her mug, eyes never leaving Riley’s. “So. What do you do with the time, when you know the other person’s not going to get more of it?”

Riley looked at the dead ash, then at the mug, then at Norah. “Is this about Andy somehow?” She asked quietly.

Norah blinked, then shook her head. “No, not Andy. Just… a question.”

Riley frowned. “You mean, what do you do for them, or what do you do for yourself?”

Norah didn’t answer. Riley watched her a long time, searching for a tell. When she didn’t get it, she said, “You know, for someone who’s built their whole life on numbers and plans, you really suck at asking a direct question.”

Norah smiled. It was a tired, inside-joke kind of smile. “Maybe I don’t know what the right question is,” she said, softer.

Riley let the quiet settle in again. She turned the words over, testing them. “You want to know what you’re supposed to do, or what’s left to do, when the clock is running out?”

Norah didn’t blink. “Sure.”

Riley nodded. “Okay.” She flexed her hands, ran her thumb along the scar on her palm, a tick she’d picked up after the accident. “You’re asking the wrong person. I never got the hours. My son made it twenty-three hours and four minutes. The only time I was allowed to hold him at the hospital was after he’d already died.” She watched the words land, measured Norah’s reaction, but Norah didn’t move, didn’t even flinch. Riley admired that about her, sometimes.

Riley continued. “You want to know what you do with the hours? I’ll tell you what you do. You count the seconds instead. Because when that is done, you keep the wristband they gave you, even though the nurse said it was unsanitary. You stare at the printout from the monitor, even when the line is flat. And you make up stories about what you would have said if he could have heard you.”

Norah’s mug was motionless now. She listened, intent, but didn’t interrupt.

Riley cleared her throat, hard. “I had this—stupid—bunny. Blue and gold. My mom left it with me when she gave me up, in the basket. I kept it my whole life. I meant to give it to him, but he never came home, so it stayed in a drawer, and I never got to put it in his hands. That’s what you do with the hours. Make them count. Because they end. And sometimes, after that, there’s nothing to do at all. Sometimes you just sit there, holding a mug of cold coffee, waiting for the next thing that won’t happen.”

Norah was very still. When she spoke, her voice had changed, barely above a whisper, as if she wasn’t used to speaking at this frequency. “Did you keep the bunny?”

Riley nodded, not trusting herself to say yes.

Norah nodded too, as if some internal calculation had settled. “Good,” she said. Then, after a pause: “You always seemed like the kind of person who’d give away the one thing that mattered, just to prove it didn’t.”

Riley smiled at that, but it wasn’t a happy smile. “Yeah. I’m a sucker for self-sabotage. But you already knew that.” Riley hesitated, then added, “You want to tell me why you’re asking?”

Norah turned her head, stared at the hotel’s glass, then at the sky. “No. Not right now.”

Riley respected that. She’d gotten more from Norah in ten minutes than in a month of passive-aggressive sparring. She let the silence stretch until Norah stood and gathered her shoes. Then she nodded, and headed back toward the hotel, steps deliberate. Riley watched her go, then sat with the cold mug and the dead ash and the weight in her hands.

The main kitchen was empty except for the soft drone of the refrigerator and the faintest hint of citrus cleaning spray. Chloe moved through the space on tiptoe, as if she’d wake the others by walking too loudly, even though she’d seen no one else in the halls. She wore pajama shorts and a gray cardigan that hung low on her shoulders. Her hair was gathered into a loose, not-quite-presentable braid, and she had not bothered with makeup or even splashing her face, so her eyes blinked owlish and unguarded. She padded in and started to reach for the kettle.

Liesa was already there. She stood with her back to the counter, a box of loose-leaf tea open in front of her, scooping a measured spoonful into a steel infuser. Liesa looked up at the noise—Chloe was not as quiet as she believed, especially with bare feet—and offered a smile that was too gentle for this hour. She wore a man’s t-shirt, paint-stained on the sleeve, and a pair of slate-blue leggings. The shirt hung off her in the careless way that only looked effortless if you did not know how she worked for it.

“Morning,” Liesa said, in a hush just above the kettle’s grumble. “Are early today.”

Chloe nodded, then yawned, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. “Couldn’t sleep. I think the sun comes up earlier now.”

Liesa’s smile broadened. “I always think that, too. Is a trick the window glass plays on your eyes.” She poured water into the kettle and set it on the heating plate, then, after a half-beat, added, “Do you want some? I have a chamomile and a mint. I can make both.”

Chloe considered this, looked at the teas on the counter, then shrugged. “Surprise me?”

“Will do.” Liesa reached for the smaller tin, scooped with calm precision, and made a second infuser for Chloe. Then she gestured at the stools on the near side of the counter. “Sit. I will bring it over.”

Chloe sat, wrapping the cardigan tight around her like a shield. She tried to make herself small, but that had never really worked, not since the transformations, and she suspected it looked even more ridiculous now, given her size and the way her breasts wanted to spill out of even the softest, stretchiest clothes. She tugged at the cardigan again, then placed her hands flat on the marble and studied them, as if they might reveal some secret answer she’d missed.

Liesa finished her work at the counter, rinsed her hands, and slid onto the stool next to Chloe. She turned, side-saddle, so she could face her without turning her back to the kettle, and rested her chin in her hand, elbow on the counter.

“You okay?” Liesa asked, tone low and even.

Chloe tried to laugh it off. “I’m always like this in the morning. It takes an hour and three cups of tea before I’m at all human.”

Liesa nodded, as if this made perfect sense. She said nothing more. The pause was long enough for the kettle to begin a low, rumbling whine. Liesa waited until it peaked, then rose to pour the water, careful and steady, into the two mugs. She let the infusers float, then brought both to the counter and set one gently in front of Chloe.

Chloe took the mug, wrapped both hands around it, and stared at the curling plumes of steam. “Thank you,” she said, softer this time. She hesitated, then said, “You’re not going to ask, are you?”

“About what?” Liesa said, not coy but genuinely gentle.

Chloe squirmed. “Whatever it is that makes me so… weird, lately.”

“I’ll ask when you’re ready,” Liesa said. “But only if you want to tell me.”

Chloe tried a smile, but it was lopsided. “You always say the right thing, you know? It’s a little annoying.”

“Sorry,” Liesa said, the apology a featherweight joke. “I can be less nice, if you want. I can even pretend I don’t notice things.”

Chloe sipped her tea, then coughed—she hadn’t expected it to be that hot. Liesa reached, reflexive, to pat her on the shoulder, then let her hand rest there a moment longer than necessary. She asked, “Do you want to go for a walk later? There’s a patch of wildflowers near the main lawn. It’s nice when it’s empty. The bees sleep in the flowers in the morning. I can show you.”

Chloe shrugged, but there was a light in her eyes that said yes. “Maybe. Depends if I’m needed for anything.” She reached for the honey, drizzled an extravagant amount into her mug, and stirred it with the little metal spoon. The tea went from gold to cloudy in a single swirl.

Liesa opened her eyes again, caught the motion, and smiled. “It’s better with honey.”

“I used to think it was cheating,” Chloe said, not sure why. “Like, if you didn’t like the taste, you should just drink water instead. But then my friend’s mom told me it was the only thing she could eat when she was pregnant, and now I think of it as… I don’t know. A survival tactic.” She laughed, but it didn’t come out happy. “Sorry, that was weird.”

“It’s not weird,” Liesa said, immediately. “Sometimes you just need sweetness. It helps the rest go down easier.”

Chloe held the mug close, not drinking, just breathing the steam. Liesa watched her for a moment, then leaned in, lowering her voice even further. “Chloe. Is there something wrong? With the transformations, or with you?”

Chloe opened her mouth, closed it, then looked at Liesa straight-on for the first time all morning. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m just… not myself, lately.”

Liesa’s expression shifted. “Are you scared?”

Chloe shook her head, then nodded, then pressed her palms flat on the marble to make it stop. “Not scared. Not really.” She rolled the words around, testing them for accuracy. “I guess I just… I’m still trying to let go of the idea that I’d never… that I couldn’t ever…” She trailed off, then set the mug down and met Liesa’s eyes for real. “I’m pregnant.” It came out abrupt, loud in the stillness.

Liesa didn’t flinch. She let the words hang, then smiled. She reached across and touched Chloe’s hand, very lightly. “Congratulations,” she said, and there was nothing but warmth in the sound.

Chloe tried to read her. “You’re not surprised.”

Liesa’s eyes crinkled, betraying the smallest flicker of a secret. “No, not really. The way you’ve been… I thought it might be.” She shrugged. “I have seen you touch your belly. I know how it feels.”

Chloe stared at her, then snorted. “So I’m obvious.”

“You’re not obvious,” Liesa said, “Well… maybe a little.” She smiled, then, for the first time since Chloe entered, looked a little nervous herself. “Can I tell you something?”

Chloe nodded, blinking back sudden wetness. “Yeah.”

Liesa set the mug down, then turned to face her straight-on. “I am also pregnant,” she said, and her cheeks turned pink. “Three days ago, Sam and I—” She shook her head. “There was a magical present we received with fan mail. Before, I was too scared. Now… it felt right.”

Chloe stared at her, open-mouthed. “You’re kidding.”

“No,” Liesa said. “We also have two more presents for this. One is for Sam, if she wants to.” Her face was shy, and proud, and scared all at once.

Chloe swallowed, unsure what to do with the news. “How did Sam take it?”

Liesa nodded. “She cried. Then she laughed. Then she cried again. I think she is still cycling through them.” She gave a small laugh of her own.

Chloe exhaled, shoulders relaxing for the first time all morning. “That’s amazing.” She shook her head. “Congratulations, to both you and Sam. You’ll make amazing mothers.”

Liesa smiled. “You too, Chloe. You were born for it.” She reached out and held Chloe’s hand, and for a few moments, they sat in companionable silence.

A few minutes later, a Mildred materialized at the kitchen entrance. She wore the standard black-and-white of the Service, her face blank as always, but her hands were careful as she set two mugs of fresh tea on the counter, and beside them, two small wrapped parcels. The wrapping on each was dark and slightly iridescent, like the inside of a mussel shell, and the strings tying them were not quite the same color from one moment to the next—one seeming blue, then a deep arterial red, then blue again when you looked directly at it; the other green, then black, then green. Both occasionally twitched, like exposed nerves. She straightened, folded her hands, and said, in the flat, uninflected tone of someone reading from a card, “A small gift. For the spawn you are nourishing with the flesh of your own bodies.”

Chloe choked on nothing. Liesa set her mug down very slowly.

Mildred waited, as if the silence were a formality to be observed. Then she turned and retreated without another word, leaving the two women alone with their gifts.

Chloe stared at the space where she had been. “Did she just—”

“Yes,” Liesa said.

“Is that how they always—”

“I think so,” Liesa said. “You get used to it.” She did not look entirely like someone who had gotten used to it. Liesa shrugged, a little wary. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s a test. Or a reward.” She picked up the blue-tied box, felt its weight, then set it back down. Chloe took the green-tied one, holding it delicately between her fingers. The wrapping was… fleshy, eerily like dry skin, but beneath it was something solid.

They looked at each other, then at the parcels, then back at each other. They untied the strings. Chloe’s was easier; the paper peeled away with a whisper, revealing a smooth, cool object inside, about the size of her palm. She held it up, and Liesa leaned in, both of them staring at the strange, bone-colored piece.

It was a cluster of figures, several small forms fused together at hip and shoulder, like a knot of kittens or a tangle of limbs. Each one was slightly different: the curve of a head, the roundness of a belly, a hand here, a foot there. But all the faces were the same: featureless, except for two shallow dimples where eyes would be, and a curved line that could have been a mouth. The whole thing was so smooth it almost seemed wet. As she held it, Chloe realized it was warm, not with the heat of the air, but with the faint, humming energy of a living thing.

Liesa’s gift was smaller, but heavier. She unwrapped it to find a single infant figure, no bigger than a matchbox but perfectly formed, down to the tiny ears and the trace of a spine running the length of the back. The proportions were off, the head too large, the hands each with six fingers, the feet splayed and strange. The face was the same as Chloe’s: blank, except for the dimples and the mouth, from which some tentacles erupted. It was horrifying in its own way, and disturbingly, a little cute.

Both gifts vibrated faintly in the air, a warmth that ran up their arms and into their chests.

“There’s no note,” Chloe said, voice hoarse.

“Maybe we’re supposed to guess,” Liesa replied.

They sat in silence for a while, staring at the figures, tea cooling by their hands, the early sun lighting the room in gold. Chloe looked up at Liesa. “You think we’re supposed to keep them?”

Liesa considered this. “They came from Mildred, I think,” she said, slowly. “So.” She didn’t finish the sentence.

“Right,” Chloe said. She turned the cluster of figures over in her palm. The warmth of it was undeniable, almost pleasant, which felt like its own problem. “It’s just that Mildred handed them to us and said—”

“Spawn,” Liesa supplied.

“Spawn,” Chloe confirmed. She looked at the thing. The little curved mouths. “I don’t want to put it down,” she admitted. “I also don’t love that I don’t want to put it down.”

Liesa glanced at her own figure, the six-fingered hands, the tentacles. “No,” she said. “Me neither.” A pause. “I think we keep them.”

Chloe nodded, wrapping her fingers back around it. “Yeah,” she said. “I think we keep them.”

Andy found Laura on the upper terrace, knees drawn to her chests, both faces toward the endless sweep of sea and the white-fanged arc of islands. The baby book was open between her laps, the blue ribbon trailing in the breeze, a page flat across each set of thighs. It should have looked awkward, but there was nothing awkward about the way Laura held herself. Even in borrowed pajamas, hair rough with salt and sleep, she was a singular presence in the air, doubled only by intent. Andy watched her for a second, letting his eyes slide from one profile to the other, both so familiar it hurt. He could feel a sadness from her, a grief that reminded him of her emotions when she was with Sarah.

He sat on the edge of the chaise, careful not to disturb the book. He didn’t say anything—he didn’t have to. His fingers touched hers, and the bond between them thrummed, settling instantly, as if a pulse of light had traveled from her hands to his heart.

Laura closed her eyes, just for a beat, and then both faces turned to him. “You want to hear something?”

Andy nodded, no words necessary.

Laura scanned the page, then began to read. She spoke with both voices, the sound doubled but never echoing, each word perfectly reinforced.

I want to tell you things, practical things, the kind a mother is supposed to say. Be kind where you can. Keep your promises. Don't let anyone make you small. You come from women who loved fiercely and paid for it, and I want you to love fiercely too, but I also want you to know that you are allowed to be loved back. You don't have to earn it. You were born deserving it.

And this: find someone who will not let you be alone. Not someone who makes you need them, but someone who simply refuses to let you disappear. Someone who will be there before you know you need them to be, who will find you even when you don't know you are lost. When you find that person, be that for them too. I think that is the whole of it, really. I think that is what a life is for.

She read the passage without looking up, both sets of hands smoothing the corners flat. Her voice was steady, but Andy saw the pulse in her throat, the tightness in her shoulders. He let her finish.

At the last line of that letter—I love you more than I can put in a book. This whole book is not enough. But it is what I have, so I am giving you all of it—she went quiet.

Andy reached over, set a hand on her forearm, then slid his palm under her fingers, folding their hands together. “Your mother was a good writer,” he said. “She made it sound like you were born a whole person.”

Both of Laura smiled sadly. “I always felt like I came in too loud. Too much at once.” She looked down at the book, fingers resting on the page. A beat passed. “That part,” she said, without looking up. “About finding someone who refuses to let you disappear.” Her thumb traced the line. “She wrote that before she ever met you.”

Andy didn’t say anything.

Laura’s right face turned to him, then the left. “You were there before I knew I needed you to be,” she said, her voice quivering. “You found me when I didn’t know I was lost.” A pause. “She described you. She just didn’t know your name yet.”

Andy looked at the page, then at her. His throat moved. “She knew you,” he said finally. “She knew what you’d need.”

Laura turned a page, the movement mirrored in both sets of hands. “You want to hear another?”

“Always,” Andy said.

She flipped back a few sheets, fingers trailing the silk ribbon.

My darling,

I felt you today. Not really, the books say it is too early, that what I felt was probably nothing, or my own nerves, or hope wearing a costume. But I felt something, low and sure, like a knock on a door from the inside, and I have decided to believe it was you.

I keep a list now. Things I want to show you. It is a foolish list and I add to it when I cannot sleep. The way the frost makes ferns on a cold window. The sound a screen door makes in summer. How a dog will lean its whole weight against your leg when it has decided you are safe. None of these are important. That is why they are on the list. The important things you will learn from everyone. The small things you only learn from someone who loves you enough to point.

Laura’s voice faltered for the first time. She blinked hard, fighting something down, and continued.

I do not know yet if you are a girl or a boy, and I find I do not care, though I catch myself talking to you as if I already know you. Maybe that is what this is, the not knowing. I get to imagine all of you at once, every version, before the world narrows you down to just the one. For now you are everything you could be, and you are mine, and I am talking to you in the dark.

Whoever you turn out to be: I am already on your side. Before you have done anything. Before I know your name. That part is not in question and it never will be.

Your mother, Sarah

She let the page fall, the silence rushing in to fill the air.

Andy waited, not pushing, just keeping their hands knotted together.

Laura’s heads bowed at once. “It’s strange,” she said, both voices soft. “She never talked to me like this. Not once. It was always—” She stopped. Both mouths pressed together. “It was always the rules. Greg’s rules. What to say, how to say it. Even when she looked at me like she wanted to—” Laura’s right hand turned over in Andy’s, palm up, fingers open. “She couldn’t. She just couldn’t get there.”

Andy was quiet.

“I didn’t know her,” Laura said, sadly. “I grew up with her and I didn’t know her at all. This book is the first time I’ve ever actually heard her.”

Both sets of her eyes stayed on the page. “I can’t stop thinking that the last thing I ever said to her—” Her right voice caught first, then the left, a half-second behind. “I told her I hated her. I was thirteen and I meant it and then I drowned and that was it. That was the last thing she ever got from me.” Her finger pressed flat against Sarah’s handwriting. “She wrote all of this, and I gave her that. And now I know she loved me like this, and I’m back, and I could tell her—”

Andy moved without thinking, pulling both her bodies into him, one arm around each waist. He didn’t say anything for a moment. He just held on.

“She’s still in there,” he said finally, his voice low. “You saw it. You heard her. She’s fighting.”

Laura’s faces turned into his shoulders. “She can’t hear me tell her I’m sorry.” She said in a small voice.

“Not yet,” Andy said. “But she will.”

A long breath went out of both of Laura at once. Her right hand found his knee and gripped it. “Not yet,” she repeated, like she was deciding to believe it. She traced the edge of the page with her right index finger, the left hand still gripping Andy’s tight. “My Mom couldn’t take this with her, I guess, or feared Greg would destroy it, throw it out. She asked Arabella to keep it, until I was eighteen. Until I was old enough to understand.” She glanced up, a dry laugh in both throats. “But I died at thirteen.”

“You have it now,” Andy said.

Laura swallowed. “That’s the hard part. She wrote all these words for a girl she didn’t know. Not the one I became.” There was a pause, and Andy felt her hesitate. “After the show, Greg **** her to stay with him. She was **** to obey his rules. I remember thinking it was her fault, for being so weak, for letting him treat us like that.”

Andy heard the years of cold in Laura’s voice, but he didn’t flinch. “You were a kid. You didn’t get a say.”

Laura looked at him, both faces locked on. “She didn’t get a say, either. Not really. Everything she ever did was because of a compulsion, or a command, or a promise she couldn’t break. I used to be so angry at her. For not saving me, for not fighting back. Now I don’t know what to do with that.”

Andy let go of her hand and wrapped both arms around her waists, drawing her two bodies close. “You love her,” he said, simple and clear. “But now you know her as a real person either way.”

For a moment, both sets of Laura’s eyes closed. When they opened again, they were lighter, wet but not brimming. “What does it mean,” she said, “to be loved before you exist? Before you even have a name?”

“I think it means you’re real before you know it,” Andy said. “That your Mom wanted you enough to invent you, over and over, until the world had to let you through.”

Laura smiled, both faces, both bodies, all at once. She set the book aside, letting it close on the ribbon, and turned so both her faces were inches from Andy’s.

He kissed her, a quick brush of lips on each mouth, then deeper, letting the bond run free for a minute. He tasted salt and sweetness and something he couldn’t name. Both of Laura’s right hands fisted in his hair, and the contact doubled, the sensation running in parallel up both sides of his neck. The bond vibrated, soothing, grounding. When they parted, Andy kept his forehead pressed to both of hers, both of them catching breath.

Laura was the first to break the silence, wiping both sets of eyes. “Do you remember the Dragon Tree?”

Andy blinked, taken off guard, and then grinned. “The willow behind Karchers’? The one we said had a dragon’s face, and the branches were the whiskers or the tentacles or something?”

Laura snorted, at first dismissive, then half-smiling as both faces tilted at him. “Not tentacles. The branches were arms, and the roots were the tentacles. You always forget the most important part.”

“I could have sworn it was the branches,” Andy said, delighted as the memory came alive. “You used to try to climb out onto the lowest one, and then I’d have to talk you down so you didn’t break your neck.”

Laura’s left side shrugged like this was exactly as it should be. The right rolled her eyes theatrically. “I never fell.”

“You fell three times,” Andy said, holding up fingers, “and every time you made me swear not to tell your mom. Once you had a rock stuck in your knee and you wouldn’t let me pull it out, so you bled all over my favorite hoodie.” He grinned. “I had to lie to my mom and say it was paint.”

Laura’s right voice was instantly defensive, “You liked that hoodie better after, anyway. You said the stain looked like a wolf.”

“It did look like a wolf,” Andy admitted. The memory of it—chalky blue, a ragged patch of red near the elbow—came back with sudden clarity. “I forgot about that.” He leaned back, looking at both of her. “It’s weird, the stuff you remember.”

Laura’s faces aligned, both sets of eyes on him. “For me, it’s always the hiding. Not the tree, or the backyard, but the time right after. When we’d sit there, not talking, just breathing, and you’d draw in the dirt with a stick. Like we were practicing being invisible together.” She hesitated. “Or pretending someone could just vanish if they wanted it bad enough.”

Andy felt it too, the hush after running, the shallow breaths and the scratch of sticks on dirt. “We did a lot of hiding.”

“Not really,” Laura said, both mouths soft. “Not when you were there. With you, it always felt like—” She trailed off, then picked up the thread. “Like I was safe.”

He thought of all the times she’d shown up at his door, even after the worst days, and how, without asking, she’d make him go outside: to walk the block, to cut through the alleys, to see the sky so she could remind herself there were bigger, wider places than the house she hated. “You remember that time you made us bike to the lake, and you packed sandwiches but forgot to bring water?”

Laura scoffed, a stereo effect. “It was October. We didn’t need water. I brought four different kinds of chips.”

“And two of them were just the bags re-labeled with Sharpie,” Andy said. “You made ‘Ghost Ranch’ by dumping all the crumbs together and shaking them up.”

Laura laughed, both voices in sync, and just for a second Andy felt the old joy of making her happy, the bubble of something easy and good. He could feel it now, through the bond. The happiness. “You always brought the practical stuff,” she said. “I just wanted to see what would happen if we mixed everything up together.” One of her hands picked up his thumb and squeezed it. “I was the chaos. You were the fix.”

A memory surfaced, unbidden: Laura showing up at his house, face red and eyes wild, a purple-and-gold bruise already blooming on her forearm. She’d refused to talk about it, but Andy had understood anyway, and they’d hidden in the crawlspace under his porch for an hour, not saying a word. When his mother found them, she’d given Laura a mug of tea and let her stay for dinner without comment.

“I don’t remember ever being the fix,” Andy said. “Mostly I felt like I was just figuring out how not to mess it up worse.”

Laura’s faces smiled at him, something intense and sure. “You fixed everything. Even when you had to break the rules to do it.”

He didn’t respond, unsure how to accept a kindness that was so obviously—ridiculously—incorrect. Instead, he reached out and tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear, one side then the other, the motion mirrored. “You remember Sunny’s?” he said, suddenly, needing a safer ground.

Laura’s faces lit up. “God, yes. The best gas station in the entire Midwest. You could get those giant freeze pops and the weird donut holes, and the guy at the counter would let you spin the lottery wheel if you said please.”

“You always got cherry. I always got blue raspberry,” Andy said. “If I didn’t show, you’d buy both and throw one at the wall.”

Laura’s faces did a mock gasp. “I never wasted food. I ate both. You’re misremembering on purpose.”

“Maybe,” Andy allowed, letting the memory play out. “But I remember every time you showed up, you always had something for me. Like you had to prove we were still friends.”

“You remember!” she said, delighted.

“I remember everything about you,” Andy said, softly.

Laura’s voices dropped, a harmony of quiet regret. “It felt like that sometimes, you know. I was so scared that if I stopped for even a day, you’d vanish.” She traced a finger along the spine of the baby book, back and forth, as if to steady herself. “You were better at making things last.”

Andy looked at her, really looked, and saw the thirteen-year-old and the thirty-year-old in the same face, held together by the tension of memory and regret. “You’re the one who always showed up,” he said. “I just tried to keep up.”

Laura leaned in and kissed him. “You’re not supposed to make it easy for me to win these.”

Andy said, “That’s my strategy. You’re too competitive to enjoy an easy win, so you’ll overthink and lose anyway.”

Both faces grinned, a perfect stereo. “You think you know me so well.”

“I do,” Andy said, gentle. “Better than anyone.”

There was a pause, a hush that felt softer than the one before it, the kind you could settle into. Laura turned, so both faces rested against his shoulders, and Andy wrapped his arms around both of her, holding her double body like a living paradox. They sat, not talking, just watching the way the sun climbed higher, the light on the water flattening out into something bright and final. If Andy let his focus go slack, he could feel Laura’s breath in both bodies, the symmetry uncanny, the heartbeat between them doubled and then rejoined on its way back to his own chest. The unspoken current of the bond—its logic and its strangeness—was easier to bear in these moments, when they could braid silence and memory into something softer than either of them managed alone.

After a while, Laura said, “Do you remember the ice cream place, on the pier?”

Andy turned, caught the flash of mischief on both her faces, and played along. “You got mint chip, but only if they had a metal spoon. If they gave you a plastic one, you said it ruined the taste.”

She laughed, a harmony that should have been unfamiliar but by now was his favorite sound in both the world and its mirror. The laugh lingered, then sobered, but there was pleasure in her surprise that was more than just nostalgia. “When I first came back, that first night, I was so sure even you couldn’t remember me so well. But that comment, about the ice cream, that’s the thing that got me. You remembered everything, even the stupid details. How do you remember these things?”

“Because you made them important,” Andy said, and the answer sounded truer out loud than it had in his head. “And because you’d remind me every time I forgot.”

“There are no stupid details,” Andy said. He pressed his arms tight around her, two bodies clamped to his sides, the embrace almost comic in its completeness. The heat of Laura—her body, her presence—was a battery against the wind.

For a minute, that was enough. They watched the handful of morning gulls, the flicker of light on the water. Laura’s hands—one right, one left—found his, and all four fidgeted in a tangle of belonging.

It wasn’t until Laura shifted, just slightly, that Andy caught the tremble. The bond spiked and fell, a radio tuning in a **** station. The baby book slipped from her lap, landing on the glass table with a gentle thud.

Andy said, “I love you, Laura. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I don’t know how much time we get. But I know you’re real, and you matter.”

Laura’s faces both blushed, right to the ears. “That’s so unfair,” she said. “How am I supposed to one-up that?”

Andy grinned, and for once let himself feel the victory. “You’ll find a way.”

She kissed him, both mouths at once, and this time it was deeper, needier, as if she wanted to imprint it on his memory. His own hands, greedy and gentle, mapped the shape of her back, the two spines running in parallel then converging at her waist. The bond did not so much vibrate as hum, sweet and clean, like a tuning fork pressed to bone.

When they finally broke, Laura said, “You know what I want?”

Andy said, “Tell me.”

She thought for a second. “A normal date. Like, a really boring one. Dinner and a movie. Popcorn, maybe. You in your dumb button-down shirt.” She looked at Andy as if daring him to mock it.

“I can do that,” Andy said, but even as he promised, he watched the look in her eyes—the mischief, the spark. He wondered if it was his promise she trusted, or whether she was only setting him up for the next round.

Laura smirked, both faces. “Or maybe not boring. Maybe the Museum of Pleasures Past. You said you’d take me, after all.”

Andy groaned theatrically. “That place is for tourists. Or perverts.”

“Same thing,” Laura said, both voices sweet and vicious.

Andy rolled his eyes, playing the old game. “Fine. Boring date first. The next one, we’ll go to the Museum. But then I get to pick the next location.”

Laura raised both left eyebrows, waiting.

Andy leaned in, daring her back. “Karaoke night. All the way through. You and me, first and last songs.”

Laura’s left face went pale, the right went red. “That’s—”

“Too late,” Andy said. “It’s a promise now.”

Both Lauras looked at him, then at the horizon. “Deal,” she said, finally, and it was obvious she meant it. For a long stretch neither moved, the air between them comfortable and thickened with old longing breathed into new shape. Andy felt the tension slip from his shoulders, the knot in his chest unwinding by slow degrees. When he finally stood, he offered both his hands, and Laura took them, both bodies rising at once, moving with a single, beautiful unity. They left the baby book on the table, the blue ribbon fluttering in the breeze, and walked inside, together.

Andy walked the private beach, letting the world contract to the sound of crushed gravel and the salt-air hush of the waves. Laura’s two bodies kept perfect pace beside him, sometimes side by side, sometimes one a half-step ahead or behind, but always moving like she’d trained her entire life for this synchronized walking. He glanced over his shoulder once—she caught him, and both faces smiled, both sets of eyes wide and bright.

The beach was empty, wind whipping the sand into little fox-tail plumes along the waterline. The morning was so clear it felt like a trick, the kind of blue that made you think it would last forever. Andy led Laura down the narrow steps cut into the rock, then paused to let her catch up.

She stopped at the bottom, both bodies still, and just looked at the sea. For a long minute, neither of them moved.

Andy said, “Do you remember the first time I brought you here?”

Laura’s left face grinned. “You mean when you made me cry, like, five times in an hour?” The right face softened, looking at the horizon. “Yeah, I remember.”

Andy laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’d never seen the ocean before. You said it was too big, like it was staring back at you.”

Laura nodded, the right body picking up a pebble and rolling it between her fingers. “I was scared it would suck me in.” She tossed the pebble at the surf, then watched it skip once before vanishing. “But I wanted to see it anyway. I wanted to see everything.”

Andy looked at her, both bodies framed by the slant of the sun, hair whipping across her faces in perfect stereo. “You always did,” he said. “You always wanted more.”

Laura shrugged, and the motion rippled through both bodies at once. “It never felt like enough, unless you were there. I always needed someone else to dare me.” Both faces turned to him, a smile tugging at both mouths.

One of Laura’s bodies stepped onto the wet sand, then kicked off her shoes and ran straight for the water, the other only a half-beat behind. Andy watched for a second, then followed, stripping his socks as he went. The cold bit hard at first, but he let the sensation chase the last of the sleep from his veins.

She splashed him, the first body getting his ankle, the other circling behind and sending a spray up his back. Andy yelped, dodged, but it was futile—both of her worked in tandem, flanking him and laughing, the sound doubled and overlapping, echoing off the rocks. He feinted left, but the left Laura body was faster, grabbing his wrist, and the right body crashed into his side, pushing him off balance. Andy let himself go, falling backward with a yelp that turned into a laugh. He hit the water with a soft smack, and for a second, all he could see was sky.

Laura’s two bodies grabbed his hands and hauled him upright, cold water sluicing off his shirt. Andy looked at her, at both of her, and shook his head, grinning. “You’re a menace,” he said.

“You love it,” both voices chimed in unison, and this time he couldn’t argue.

The two of them played for what felt like hours but was probably ten minutes, chasing, dunking, letting the salt and sun and laughter eat away at the heaviness they’d carried up from the hotel. When they were tired, Andy and Laura sat on the sand just above the waterline, waves running up to their shins. Andy leaned back on his elbows, letting the sun do its work. Laura sat with both sets of knees hugged to her chests, one body on each side of Andy.

After a while, Laura said, “You ever wish we could just stay here?” Both voices were low, almost reverent.

Andy thought about it. “Yeah. Sometimes.” He let the sun warm his face. “It’d be nice, to stop time for a while.”

Laura nodded, and the right face looked out at the sea while the left one studied Andy. “Do you think we ever would have stayed together by now, if the world had remained normal and I hadn’t died?”

Andy shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. But we’re here now.” He looked over, caught both sets of blue eyes at once. “I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

Laura smiled, both faces. “Not even for a life without all the…” She trailed off, waving both hands at the air. “All the drama?”

He laughed, shaking his head. “The drama’s part of it.”

For a while, they watched the tide roll in, neither talking. The quiet was so complete Andy felt like the world had dropped away, leaving only the three of them, the sea, and the faint taste of salt on his tongue. Eventually, Andy looked at the time. “I should get back. It’s almost time for my ‘date’.”

Both of Laura’s faces fell, but only a little. “You could stay,” she said, almost teasing.

“I could,” Andy said. “But Sam would come down here and drag me back by the ear, and you know it.”

Laura laughed. “She probably would. I’d like to see that.”

He stood, brushing sand off his jeans, and offered both hands. Laura took them, both bodies rising in perfect sync. They walked up the path together, barefoot, shoes dangling from Andy’s free hand. At the top of the trail, Laura paused, looking back at the cove, then at Andy. Both faces were serious now, the playfulness replaced by something deeper. “Thank you,” she said, both voices together. “For always knowing how to make me smile.”

Andy didn’t know what to say, so he just pulled her close, both bodies at once, and held on as long as she let him. When they finally parted, Laura’s faces were bright, both mouths curved in a small, private smile. Andy went to change, and Laura stood there on the path, watching the sea until the sun had climbed a little higher, and the cove was washed in new light.

Dawn found herself in the inner gardens before she’d consciously decided to go outside. The morning had a pull to it: air soft but cool on her bare arms, sunlight already tangled in the vines, not a single other soul around. It was quiet, but not still—the whole space vibrated with the slow energy of leaves moving, new shoots pushing up where yesterday there had been only dirt. The only sound was the gentle click of the automatic sprinkler, and the warbling notes of birds she couldn’t see but liked to imagine anyway.

She walked the main path in a zig-zag, passing under arches of white and pink trumpet-flowers, then along the small hedge maze that cut off near the climbing wall. She found Erin there, her pale green skin catching the light, hands deep in the trailing mass of a bougainvillea. Erin was halfway up the wall, both feet braced on a rung. She plucked something from the tangle—an old brown shoot, maybe—and examined it, then crushed it in her fingers, rubbing the dust off on her thigh.

Dawn hesitated, not wanting to interrupt, then made herself walk over anyway. She dropped onto a wooden bench five feet from the wall and said, “How long have you been up?”

Erin didn’t turn, just kept working, methodical. “Photosynthesis is a hell of an alarm clock. Kinda like your transformation, but with bedhead.”

Dawn snorted. “Did you, uh, have a wild night out here?”

Erin half-turned, mouth twisted. “No. I slept in the room, thank you very much. I just hate being inside when it’s this nice. Everything’s awake.” She gestured at the climbing wall, where three or four vines had managed to leap another six inches in the last week. “These guys grow like crazy. If I don’t keep up, it’ll be a mess.”

Dawn craned her neck. “Doesn’t the staff do that?”

Erin shrugged. “They do, but they don’t know the difference between good and bad growth. They just want it neat.” She looked over her shoulder, both eyes narrow but not unfriendly. “Have you ever worked with plants before?”

“Not really. My grandma had a balcony garden, but I killed half her basil in a week.” Dawn grinned, then reached up to flick a bead of dew off a nearby leaf. “But I like watching you do it.”

Erin made a sound—a not-quite-laugh—and turned back to her task. She talked as she worked. “It’s not hard. You just pay attention and take away what doesn’t belong. Everything else knows what to do.”

Dawn nodded, letting the moment hang. She watched Erin’s hands: strong, sure, finger slender but dexterous. She admired the way Erin always seemed to do things with her whole body, never half-hearted, never looking for shortcuts.

Dawn shifted on the bench. “Do you ever think about how weird it is? Being… like this?”

Erin glanced down, caught Dawn’s gaze, and held it. “You mean the plant thing? Weird as in: would I go back to normal if I could?”

Dawn shrugged, a little embarrassed. “I guess. You seem like you took to it pretty fast.”

Erin thought about it, then dropped from the wall, landing soft on her sneakers. She wiped her hands on a rag and sat next to Dawn, not caring if she smeared green on the bench. “It was super weird at first. But I didn’t hate it. Maybe that’s the difference.” She flexed her fingers, watching the muscles move. “The weirdest part is how easy it is to forget that you used to be normal. That it ever felt wrong to be this way.”

Dawn smiled. “I can’t tell if you’re bragging or warning me.”

Erin laughed for real, a dry sound but not a mean one. “A little of both.”

They sat for a while, watching the vines sway, neither in any hurry to fill the air. Dawn liked the quiet, but she couldn’t help noticing how all the conversations lately were quieter, everyone gentler with each other. Maybe it was the coming wedding, or maybe it was something in the water, but it felt like everyone was holding their breath.

After a minute, Erin looked sidelong at Dawn. “What about you? You ready for the big day?”

Dawn shrugged, then smiled. “Ready as I’ll ever be. I mean, who actually prepares for this? One day you’re working a front desk, next day you’re a rabbit, and then you get married.” She laughed.

Erin snorted, her head tipped back so the sun hit the pale green curve of her throat. “You act like you’re not the best at it.” She reached over and tweaked one of Dawn’s ears—not hard, just enough to make the tip flick. “You always land on your feet.”

Dawn stuck out her tongue. “Says the girl who just re-planted the whole garden in one week.” She looked at Erin’s hands, then at the way Erin was sitting—lean, strong, a little wild, her mint-green body like it had always belonged. “Was it really that easy for you?” Dawn asked, quieter now. “Sometimes I can’t tell what’s me anymore, and what’s just… the magic.” She caught Erin’s gaze and held it. “Do you ever worry about that? Like, that one day you wake up and you’re all magic, and there’s nothing left underneath?”

Erin thought for a moment. “I do. But I also think—I wouldn’t have made it this far without the changes. I wouldn’t have the friends. Or the confidence. Or Andy.” Her face went a little red at that, and she looked away, embarrassed by her own admission.

Dawn said, softly, “You always had the confidence. You just needed someone to see it.”

For a second, neither spoke. The only sound was the wind brushing through the vines and the distant, lonely call of a seagull. Dawn tried to memorize the way the light fell through the glass ceiling, the smell of damp soil and fresh green shoots.

It was Erin who broke the silence. “Hey, do you think something’s off?” she said, voice low. “Like, with the others? Marissa acts like she’s got it together, but she’s stress-playing every night. Even Claire, she’s got that look like she’s building a bomb and we’re all supposed to sit on it. She barely comes out of the Archive. Norah tiptoes around everyone like she’s carrying secret plans and we’re all spies ready to steal them. Something’s wrong.”

Dawn nodded, picking at a loose thread on her skirt. “Yeah. I tried to ask Norah about it, but she just said ‘mind your own business’ and then changed the subject to taxes.”

Erin huffed a laugh. “That’s classic Norah.” She looked at Dawn, her eyes bright and sharp. “You ever wonder if we’re the only ones who don’t know what’s going on?”

Dawn tried to joke: “I always assume I’m the last to know.” She smiled, then let it drop. “But you’re right. Something’s different.” She tapped the bench with one finger, a steady nervous staccato. “I think it’s the wedding. Everyone’s waiting for the shoe to drop, or Arabella to pop out with some new ‘twist.’ I don’t blame them.”

Erin didn’t respond right away. She just stared at the green wall in front of them, at the vines and the climbing tendrils. Dawn watched her profile and thought, suddenly and without meaning to, about Andy—about the wedding, about what it would mean, about standing there in front of him and actually being seen. The thought arrived whole and uninvited, warm and terrifying all at once, and before she could push it back down, without warning, her body went hot—a flash, not like embarrassment, but like being hit by a wall of pure sunlight. Every part of her skin shivered, her ears went rigid, and for a second, she thought she’d lost consciousness and was waking up.

The sensation passed, but not gradually: the whole thing—heat, brightness, light—was an instant, like a camera flash, but instead of dark spots, the world came back brighter, almost hyper-real.

Dawn blinked. Her hands glowed. Not glowing like an aftereffect, but actually, for a solid three seconds, radiating light: gold, warm, rich as a sunrise. She stared, mouth open, as the glow moved up her arms and across her bare shoulders, then faded. She could feel her pulse everywhere, like the world was all heart.

She looked at Erin, terrified. “Did you—”

Erin sat there, her eyes wide, jaw slack. Her whole body looked like she’d been hit with an adrenaline shot; the green of her skin was vivid, alive, her nipples were hard and her pupils were dilated. She didn’t say anything, but the climbing plants behind her had grown at least six inches, the new shoots stretching out, not random but in a deliberate, pointed arc—toward Dawn, and toward Erin herself.

Dawn stared, watching as the vines wriggled, pushing forward in real time, leaves uncurling. “Erin?” she whispered.

Erin pressed both palms flat to the wall, as if to steady herself. She stayed that way for a long moment, then exhaled, shaky and slow. “Sorry,” she said, voice rough. “It’s—holy shit.” She looked at her hands, at the flush of her own body. “That was…” She closed her eyes, searching for the word, then found it. “Like I photosynthesized the entire day in three seconds.”

Dawn didn’t know what that meant. “Are you okay?”

Erin laughed, a wild, breaking sound. “I’m not hungry. I’m not tired. But I want to—” She stopped, clamped her mouth shut, then laughed again, squirming a little, this time with both hands over her face. “That was a lot.” She looked at Dawn. “You’re a supernova.”

Dawn’s ears went flat. “I’m sorry! I didn’t know that would happen. Is this, like, my fault?”

“Not in a bad way.” Erin reached over and grabbed her hand, squeezing hard. Her fingers felt hot, the green in her skin almost pulsing with the aftershock. “It’s like you turned into the sun and my whole body decided it was summer.”

Dawn wanted to make a joke, but her heart was racing too hard. “Is that why the vines—” she gestured at the wall, at the obvious growth.

“Yeah.” Erin grinned, wild and a little scary. “They want it, too. I can feel them.” She looked at her hands, then at the plants, then at Dawn. Dawn didn’t know what to say. She just stared at the vines, watched as a flower opened, impossibly fast, right in front of them. The petals were white at first, then blushed pink, then went back to white. She watched it, mouth open. Erin smiled. “They’re showing off for you.”

She moved to the wall and crouched in front of a cluster of new shoots that had grown in a tangled rush toward them—some bent at bad angles, a few already starting to crowd each other. She tilted her head, studying them the way someone might study a map. Then she reached out and touched one, just a fingertip to its stem.

“Hey,” Erin said, quiet and matter-of-fact, like she was talking to a kid who’d run into traffic. “Not like that. Go left, or you’ll **** the one below you.” The shoot trembled, a full-body shiver running its length, and began to move, slowly and then with gathering confidence, arcing up and to the right exactly as she’d said. The one next to it seemed to take notice. It shivered too, unprompted, and nudged itself a few degrees outward. Then a bud near Erin’s shoulder cracked open, petals splaying wide in a quick, almost impatient bloom, as if it couldn’t wait any longer to be seen. Another followed. Then two more, higher up, unprompted, jostling for her attention.

Erin laughed, surprised. “Okay, okay,” she said, to the wall. “That’s enough showing off.” She looked back at Dawn. “I couldn’t talk to them, before. It has nothing to do with the plant transformation. But now I can… it’s like I know what they want. Like I can feel it in my blood.” She looked at Dawn, more earnest than Dawn had ever seen. “It’s a little scary, actually.”

Dawn nodded, her own hands trembling. “Yeah. I get it.” She swallowed, tried to find words. “I don’t know what happened. I just… exploded?” She looked at Erin, eyes shining with it. Erin didn’t say anything for a while. She just reached over, pulled Dawn in, and hugged her. It wasn’t gentle. It was tight, like she was trying to make the moment stick.

After a bit, Erin said, “When I first turned green, I thought it was the end of my life. But now I can’t imagine not being this way. It’s changed me, like the enforced nudity, and yes, even the big boobs. I like the changes, now.” She let go, looked at Dawn, and tucked a loose strand of hair behind Dawn’s ear. “But you’re still you, you know that? You’re not lost. Not to me, not to Andy, not to any of the others.”

Dawn sniffled. “Thank you,” she said, but she didn’t let go. “You make me want to try harder.”

Erin smiled, soft this time. “You already try so hard. I wish you could see yourself the way we see you.”

Dawn didn’t answer. She just rested her head on Erin’s shoulder, both of them breathing together, the garden bright and alive around them, the scent of new blooms mixing with sun and the memory of something impossible.