The Shape of Things to Come

He found Arabella at the far edge of the gazebo, hands folded in front of her, gaze fixed on the line where sea met sky. Even now, with the ceremony over and the crowd gone, she radiated a sense of arrival—like the headmistress in a gothic novel, always watching, never quite off duty.

Andy waited until the wind snapped her gown against her ankles, then approached with deliberate steps. “Arabella,” he said, quietly, “can I have a word?”

She didn’t turn, but he saw her smile in the angle of her cheek. “Always,” she replied, and gestured for him to join her in the half-shade by the pillar.

It was strange, the intimacy of talking to the Host alone—so much more personal than the staged pronouncements, the orchestrated pageantry. Up close, he could see the way the sun highlighted the faintest freckles at her temple, how the color of her eyes was a swirl of green and gold, not unlike the moss pools near the footbridge in Warrenville. He wondered if she knew, or if it was another accident of design.

He started, “I’m going to have Erin stay in the Suite tonight.” He braced himself for a lecture, but Arabella only watched, her smile growing in the way smiles do when they’re fighting laughter.

“You’re not asking for permission,” she said.

He almost apologized, out of habit. Then, realizing it, he shook his head. “No. I’m just telling you.”

Arabella’s lips quirked. “She will be grateful. You have a habit of saving her from herself.”

He took a breath, then shrugged. “I don’t think I ever saved her from anything, back then. Mostly I just made things worse, and then I didn’t know how to fix it.” He flexed his fingers, feeling the bones shift in the old, familiar rhythm. “But this time, I want to do better. That’s all.”

Arabella studied him, the green-and-gold of her eyes never blinking. “You have changed,” she said, softer now. “Since your arrival. When I first saw you, I thought you would never admit to wanting anything—not even to yourself.”

He almost said, “People change,” but realized how trite it sounded. Instead, he just met her gaze and let the silence say it for him.

She nodded. “Very well. But I’ll have to rearrange the date nights. It would not be fair for Erin to have two solo nights with you this round. I’ll have the updated list left in the women’s bedrooms, later. You can consult it via the touchscreen in your Suite, of course.”

They stood for a moment, watching the cloud shadows race over the water. Andy realized, with a sort of jolt, that he felt comfortable in her presence. Like there was a version of himself, in a parallel world, that would have come to Arabella for advice on everything. A strange, bittersweet comfort.

Arabella was the one to break the spell. “I hope you do not think me cold, Andy,” she said. “There are rules, and I must enforce them. But there are times when the rules are not enough.”

“I get it,” he said. “You do what you have to do.”

“Sometimes I wish I could do otherwise,” she admitted, and the vulnerability in her voice caught him off guard. He wondered, for a flash, what she would be like if she were not the Host—if she could just be a person, a friend.

“I think you do more for us than you let on,” he said.

This time, her smile was genuine. “Your insight is improving,” she said, and it was almost a compliment. “But I also know when someone is stalling for time.”

He laughed, looked away. “I am. I just… wanted you to know I appreciate it.”

She inclined her head, turned to go, then paused. “Before you leave,” she said, “may I see your golden keycard?”

He fished it from his pocket, holding it between two fingers. Arabella took it with exaggerated care, pinched delicately between thumb and forefinger. She tapped her nail on the edge, and Andy felt the card thrum—a vibration, like a plucked string, that ran up his arm and pooled in his wrist.

“You now have access to a part of the island that was previously hidden,” she said. “It is… not on any of the maps.” Her voice was sly, but not mocking. “I think you will find it relevant to your interests.”

Andy blinked, surprised. “How will I find it?”

Arabella’s smile was sphinxlike. “That,” she said, “is your challenge for the week.” She pressed the card back into his palm, her hand warm where it lingered against his. “But don’t worry. I will not let you get lost. At least, not permanently.”

He rolled the card in his hand, then looked up at her. “Thank you,” he said, and for once he meant it, without any caveat or reservation.

She regarded him for a moment, then said, “I believe in you, Andy Cooper.” She said his full name like a magic word. “Do not disappoint me.”

He let the weight of it settle, then gave her a mock salute. “I’ll do my best.”

As he walked away, he felt her eyes on him. But there was no judgment there anymore—only the quiet curiosity of someone waiting to see if her experiment would succeed.

Andy stepped off the boards, headed back toward the group, and felt—for the first time—a flicker of real anticipation. There were still a hundred things to worry about. But the game, he realized, was finally starting to feel like his own.

Andy found Erin at the foot of the gazebo, sitting alone with her arms wrapped around her shins. The way she perched on the low step—shoulders high, legs tucked in—reminded Andy of the birds that used to gather outside his kitchen in the dead of winter, all defiance and no insulation. He could see her ribs under the golden skin, and the way her hair, wild and uncombed, half-shielded her face from the world.

He approached, careful not to startle. “Hey,” he said, taking a seat next to her and keeping his eyes level with the horizon. “You okay?”

She snorted. “You just saw me humiliated in front of the whole world. Take a guess.”

He almost smiled, but decided against it. Instead, he offered, “You can stay with me tonight. In the Suite. Your night for this week. Just… stay.”

She looked at him, and for the first time since the transformation, the shield cracked. “You sure?” Her voice was small, raw. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he said, and there was a certainty in it that surprised even him. “You’re not alone, Erin. Not here. At least, you don’t have to be.”

A silence, then. The kind where two people hear the waves and the wind and maybe a little bit of each other’s breathing.

“Thank you,” she said, so softly it nearly vanished. “I think I need to spend the rest of the day throwing out every piece of clothing I own.” She gestured down at her body—the impossible curves, the way even sitting cross-legged couldn’t hide her breasts. “Might as well get it over with.”

He huffed a laugh. “I’ll help you if you want.”

She made a face. “Pervert.”

He waited, and saw the almost-smile at the edge of her lips. That was good enough. He wanted to offer more—comfort, a plan, maybe even a hug—but before he could, a shadow crossed over them. Sam, hands on hips, grinned down at Erin with a mischief that was pure, uncut best friend.

“Thought you’d try to sneak off, huh?” Sam was first, the hands-on-hips stance and cocked eyebrow pure sitcom roommate, but underneath it Andy recognized the coiled anxiety of someone who’d seen a friend on the edge and wasn’t about to let her slip further. Sam held out a hand to Erin, not playful, but solid—the kind of hand you grabbed in a crisis, not for fun.

Erin tried to roll her eyes, but the effect was ruined by the tear-stains on her cheeks and the way her shoulders quivered even as she tried to square them. “Can you just leave it for once?” she said, and even as she said it, her feet edged closer to Sam, not farther away.

“Nope,” Sam said, popping the ‘p.’ “Today’s an intervention. You don’t have to talk, you don’t have to walk, but you’re not allowed to just sit here and melt into a puddle. And you’re definitely not allowed to do it alone.” She sounded like she was reading from a manual, but the waver in her voice gave her away.

Andy almost stepped in, wanting to relieve the pressure, but then Emi appeared, crowding into the scene on a cloud of nervous energy. All six of her arms glimmered in the sun, two wringing at her skirt, the others fluttering like butterflies with nothing to land on.

“If you wanted,” Emi said, kneeling so her enormous blue eyes were level with Erin’s, “I could teach you how to make origami animals? I brought paper. All different colors.” She fumbled in her basket, pulling out pastel squares and then realizing how small the offer looked compared to the size of Erin’s pain. “Or we could just… sit together. You could talk, or not. Sometimes it’s enough to just share the air.”

Erin looked at the tiny crane Emi had folded in a blink and took it without comment, turning it over in her palm. For a second, Andy thought that would be it, but then Emi added, almost in a whisper, “They say cranes are for luck. My mom used to tell me to make a wish every time I folded one.” She hesitated. “I think you’re really brave, Erin. I wish I could be that brave.”

Andy saw the impact land. Erin’s mouth did a little half-smirk, then trembled, and she didn’t say anything but she didn’t hand the crane back either.

Suddenly, Norah was there, studying Erin with the same slow intensity she’d used on the wine at dinner. “If you want,” she said, her voice soft, “we could walk the Inner Gardens. They’re supposed to be enormous. The pathways are all hidden from each other, so you don’t have to see anyone.” She flicked a reassuring glance at Andy, then back to Erin. Andy had never loved Norah more than at that moment. “I could be your lookout. If anyone stares, I’ll stare back twice as hard.” There was something undeniably reassuring about the offer, like the threat level of the outside world had suddenly dropped by half.

Erin snorted—genuine, if faint. “What is it with you people and not leaving me alone for five seconds?”

Norah shrugged, lips tight. “You could always try and outrun me. But I’m persistent as hell.”

Before Erin could muster a comeback, Dawn leapt from the third step up, her new bunny ears flopping so dramatically one almost swept her in the face. “If you need to hide out, I’m making cookies,” she said, the words tumbling together like toddlers on a slip-n-slide. “I can teach you how to do the thumbprint ones. Or we could watch cartoons, or just, like, eat raw dough until we pass out.” Dawn stumbled, caught herself, and grinned. “Maybe flour doesn’t fix everything, but it definitely helps.” She eyed the origami crane in Erin’s hand, then Emi, then Sam, then Andy, as if trying to triangulate the most inviting spot for herself in the circle.

"Cookies?" Erin said, as if the word was a joke in itself. "I can't even remember the last time I baked anything."

Dawn blinked, briefly thrown, then rallied. "That's okay! I have, like, sixteen different recipes memorized."

A pause, then Erin let out the smallest laugh—more a bark, really, but it was something. It was astonishing to Andy how the smallest kindness shaped the air around them, until the sadness was no longer a black hole but something with edges, with boundaries that could be patrolled by friends.

Marissa was next, slow-moving, eyes unreadable behind the faint shimmer of her transformation. The new ASMR quality to her voice made even the ordinary sound profound and comforting. “If you want to escape, you could come to the spa with me,” she offered, not quite meeting Erin’s eyes but holding steady just the same. “We could soak, or just listen to the silence. You don’t have to talk—sometimes it helps just to… let go for a while.”

Erin looked like she was about to object, but then stopped. “I don’t know how to talk about—” she gestured, vaguely, at herself, at the day, at everything.

Marissa nodded, her voice a hush. “You don’t have to. Sometimes the point is just being in a place where nothing is required of you. Even for an hour.”

The circle widened. Liesa, her coppery hair shining, drifted in from the periphery. “If you’re up for it, I was going to brew some tea down by the shore. Chamomile, mostly, but I’ve got blends for every mood. If you’re feeling frayed, I can make a strong one. Or something sweet, if you want to forget everything for a bit.”

Erin squinted at her, suspicious. “Do you always do this? Try to nurture everyone who’s falling apart?”

Liesa’s smile was sheepish, but not unproud. “Is my thing. I accept tips in the form of gossip or embarrassing stories.”

Erin rolled her eyes, but this time the motion was deliberate, an attempt to play along. Andy saw the tension in her shoulders slacken just a notch.

Chloe arrived next, as if she’d been lurking just out of view, waiting for the right moment. Her smile was full wattage, no hint of irony anywhere. “Or we could just play a board game,” she said. “I promise I won’t even try to win this time. Or we could do a puzzle. For, like, tactile therapy.” She wiggled her hands. “It worked for me as a kid.”

There was something so nakedly earnest about it that Andy felt a pang in his own chest. Erin stared at her for a second, then said, “You’re a terrible liar, Chloe. You always try to win.”

Chloe giggled, covering her mouth. “Guilty. But only because I’m competitive with people I like.”

Andy thought he saw Erin’s lips quiver, but she pressed them flat before anyone could notice.

At the edge of the group, Claire lingered, hands clasped tight around her notebook and pen. She didn’t step forward; instead, she gently pressed her journal into Erin’s hand. On the page, in neat, blocky print, it said: Everything sucks less when you write it down. Below, in smaller letters: Or, if you’d rather, we could read together. I don’t want you to hurt. Claire’s eyes didn’t waver from Erin’s as she drew a heart underneath it.

Erin’s breath hitched. “I’m not much of a reader,” she said, but the words were a shield, not a refusal.

Claire nodded, scribbling something else on the inside cover, then gently tapped the book once before retreating a step. Whatever she’d written, Erin didn’t share it, but she held the notebook like it was a life jacket.

The wave of offers pooled around Erin, each one a little more genuine, a little less performative than the last. For so long, the only way she’d known to survive was to keep the world at arm’s length, to let the jokes and comebacks fill the space between her and anyone who might actually see her. Now, with this misfit squad closing in, she was outnumbered, outflanked. There was nowhere left to run.

Andy saw it happening in slow motion: the way Erin’s knees drew up tighter, how her breath grew ragged, the tiny tremor in her left hand as she tried to keep hold of the origami crane. He wanted to step in, to say something, but he knew better. This wasn’t his moment.

“You—I…” And then the tears came in a rush, silent and salt-bright, streaking down Erin’s face and soaking into the sand. She didn’t hide them, not this time. They weren’t tears of hurt, or sadness. They were the kind of tears Erin had never shed. Gratitude. Belonging. And something like family. She just let them fall, heavy and unashamed, eyes squeezed shut while the girls around her pretended not to notice.

Sam was the first to move. She knelt, not caring about the sand, and wrapped Erin in the kind of hug that was half chokehold, half shield. "You know," Sam murmured, "this is payback for when you made fun of me blushing earlier today."

"I'm sorry," Erin whispered, her voice breaking as she clutched Sam's arm. "I'm so—" She couldn't finish, just pressed her forehead against Sam's shoulder while the other girls formed a protective circle around them. Dawn knelt beside them, offering a tissue from nowhere. Marissa's hand found Erin's back. Chloe and Liesa exchanged glances before each taking one of Erin's arms, gently helping her to her feet. Like a wounded soldier carried from battle, they guided her toward the hotel, Norah clearing the path ahead. Only Claire lingered, notebook clutched to her chest, watching Andy with quiet understanding.

Andy called after them, "I'll see you at the infinity pool this afternoon. First one there gets the best chair."

The group rounded the corner, their voices carrying on the wind. Andy watched until they vanished behind the hedges, feeling proud of this strange, disjointed family.

Andy lingered by the railing, staring out at the glare of the ocean, the last fragments of the girls’ laughter fading behind the wall of hibiscus and laurel. The hush that followed surprised him—not the sated silence of a good party, but something brittle and expectant. It took him longer than it should have to realize that not everyone had gone with the group.

He found Claire still perched at the edge of the gazebo, one knee tucked to her chest, her tail curled like a question mark around the ankle. Her face was tilted toward the sea, but Andy could tell she was acutely, painfully present. She tracked the departing crowd with a flick of her eyes, then—sensing his attention—looked straight at him.

He wondered if she was waiting for him, or just for the right time to move. He offered her a small wave, and she returned it, but didn’t rise. Instead, she nodded toward the shoreline, then hopped off the step with a smoothness that was all muscle and new confidence. He followed.

The path was short but private; sand and sparse grass muffled every footstep, and the only sounds were the arrhythmic hiss of waves and the distant, hollow boom of surf against the breakwater. Claire stopped a few feet from the water, then sat, ankles crossed, the toes of her shoes pointed east, as if she meant to will the sun a little higher in the sky.

Andy dropped beside her, close enough that their knees brushed when the wind shifted. She glanced at the contact, then smiled with the barest hint of mischief, as if reminding him she’d been the one to make the first move last time.

They watched the foam gather and retreat, over and over, until the silence changed texture: it was less the quiet of not knowing what to say, more the shared hush of people who have nothing to prove.

He decided to break it anyway.

“Do you mind,” he asked, “about Erin staying in the Suite tonight?”

She looked at him, and there was no hint of offense in the gesture. She simply cocked her head, as if weighing the angle of his question, then shrugged and reached for her notebook. The pen scratched a short, deliberate line.

You want to help her. I know.

He read the words, then glanced at her face for subtext, but found none—just the placid, pale blue of her eyes, waiting for his response.

“I just…” he started, and then stopped, rethinking. “I know you’re not the jealous type. It’s just important to me that you’re okay with it. Because—”

Claire put a finger to his wrist—light, but not fleeting—and shook her head. She wrote:

I am okay. I think she needs it more than I do.

He felt his throat tighten at the simplicity of it. “I don’t want to take you for granted,” he said.

She gave him a smirk—an actual, almost rebellious upturn of her lips—and wrote:

You could never.

He laughed, the release as bright as the glare off the sand. “You say that now. Wait until I forget your birthday or something.”

Claire rolled her eyes, which Andy noted was a new skill for her, one she’d only started practicing in the last couple of days. She wrote, with practiced efficiency:

We have something different. You know it, and I know it. I would rather have a little of you, real, than all of someone else.

She paused, then scribbled a line underneath.

Plus, I like that you worry. Think of using Coauthor on her, if she hurts too much. You could make her feel less mortified. Maybe even unbothered. It would help her, if she agreed.

He couldn’t help but lean against her, shoulder to shoulder. “You’re amazing,” he whispered.

She shrugged again, but this time her smile lingered. They watched the water a while longer, a pair of birds swooping in and out of view, until Claire’s tail flicked, and she opened her notebook for a new topic.

What do you know about Riley? Was she from high school? I don’t remember her.

Andy thought for a long moment. “Almost nothing,” he admitted. “You wouldn’t remember her. She’s from middle school. We were in the same grade for two years, but different classes. She was in Laura’s. I never really talked to her. She was always with Laura, or with that group. I played with her once or twice when she was at Laura’s home, but that was it.” He frowned, searching memory for any detail that would give shape to the memory. “Her Dad had an illness of some sort. I remember Laura telling me about it. She comforted her.” He sighed. “I think I met her three or four times outside of school. She always seemed intense. Smart, but in a kind of scary way? Like if you crossed her, she’d never forget.”

Claire nodded, absorbing this, then wrote:

She hates you.

Andy laughed, surprised. “Yeah. I got that impression, too.”

But Claire didn’t look up, scribbling:

She hates Chloe, too.

He sobered. “I think she blames us for what happened. For Laura.”

Claire’s head tilted, ears flattening slightly. She wrote:

Is she right?

He felt the question hit, clean and surgical. He looked at the sand, letting the words arrange themselves in his mind before he answered. “I don’t know,” he said, “Not about Chloe. But I know I could have done more, or said something, or just… been better.” He dug his heel into the sand, watching the grains shift. “There’s a whole version of my life that doesn’t end up here. I think she hates me for not finding it.”

Claire listened. She always listened. Then she wrote:

Be careful.

He looked up, startled. “With Riley?”

Claire nodded, then wrote:

With yourself.

He stared at the words, then at her. “You mean—don’t let her get in my head?”

Claire thought, then wrote, a little slower:

She hurts, like you do.

He nodded, “Yeah.”

She underlined it, then drew a heart for him, in the margin.

He couldn’t remember the last time someone that wasn't Sam had tried so hard to care for him, instead of the other way around.

A gull circled overhead, then dove, snatching something invisible from the foam. Claire followed its path, then looked back at Andy, pen poised.

What was Laura like?

He blinked, caught off guard. “No one’s asked me that since—ever.”

Claire waited, cat ears tilted forward.

He thought about it, letting the image of Laura surface. “She was… the opposite of me. Loud, sometimes. Not rude, but she didn’t mind if people thought she was odd. One time, she climbed onto the roof of the gym, because it was there, and because someone dared her. But she also…” He stopped, the words running out.

Claire finished for him, writing:

She also took care of you.

He looked at her. “Yeah. Always. And I took care of her. We were one.”

What did you love about her?

The question was direct, and for a second he felt the instinct to close up, to pull the topic back behind a safer wall. But it was Claire asking, and she had never been cruel with the answers he gave.

“She never left anyone behind,” he said. “Even the people who didn’t want her around. Especially them. She could tell when I was hurting, even if I didn’t say a word. Sometimes she’d just show up outside my house with this—this plastic bag of Swedish Fish, because she knew that was the only candy we both liked.” He smiled, and it was less a memory than a muscle spasm, but it felt real. “She was fearless, but not reckless. I was always scared of what I might lose, and she always yearned for what she couldn’t have.” He paused, closing his eyes and remembering. “She wanted a real family, you know? Sisters to play with. A Dad and Mom who took care of her, loved her. Not…” He winced, remembering, and shook his head. “My parents did what they could, but it wasn’t the same.”

Claire nodded, thoughtful.

Andy glanced at her. “You’re not jealous, are you?”

She looked at him like he was stupid, then wrote:

If you keep talking like that, I’ll marry you on the spot.

He barked a laugh, then caught the blush creeping up her neck and realized she wasn't fully joking. “Is that something you want?”

She stared at the pen, as if it had betrayed her. Then she wrote, hesitantly:

I never thought about it. But… I understand the appeal now.

She stopped, then scratched out a few lines, then wrote, in a much smaller hand:

I already feel like we’re bound together. Might as well make it official someday.

He felt something uncurl in his chest. “Are you proposing?”

Her eyes went wide. She shook her head violently, then scribbled, Sorry, sorry, I meant in the future, not— Not now. She underlined the entire sentence three times.

He grinned. “Don’t apologize. It’s a nice thought.”

She relaxed, just a little. Then she wrote:

I love you. I know I don’t show it like Erin or the others. But I want you to know.

Andy didn’t answer, not directly. He just rested his hand over hers, palm to the cool, fine bones of her fingers. They sat that way a long time, until the sun moved, and the shadow of the hotel stretched to cover their feet.

Eventually, Claire stood, brushed the sand from her skirt, and offered her hand. He took it, and she pulled him to his feet with a surprising strength.

Go back to the others, she wrote. They need you, too.

He wanted to argue, but knew she was right. He stood, watching the light on her face as she squinted into the wind, eyes clearer than he’d ever seen them.

“I’m grateful for you,” he said. “You’ve changed me more than anyone here.”

She didn’t respond, but he felt it anyway—a pulse of happiness, as real as if she’d shouted it.

By mid-afternoon, the infinity pool looked like a slice of sky poured onto the hillside. Andi paused on the stone steps, letting the humid air wrap itself around her shoulders as she scanned the water’s mirror-bright surface and the ranks of sunbathers arrayed along its edge. The swimsuit she’d found in the closet, in the section set aside for her female form, was black, one-piece, modest by TV standards but still form-fitting enough to make her wonder if it would dig into her hips when she sat down.

The others had beaten her here by a mile. Even from a distance, she could spot each woman by her signature. Chloe—already glistening with a layer of sunscreen—sat at the lip of the pool, knees pressed together, toes just skimming the turquoise water, her hands folded primly atop her new and prodigious cleavage. To Chloe’s left, Dawn lolled belly-down across a mesh float, arms dangling in the pool while her black bunny ears angled themselves like weather vanes toward every source of laughter. Next to Dawn, Emi perched cross-legged on the side, six arms elegantly splayed, two of them lazily flicking drops.

Further down the row, Claire occupied a chaise in the shade, notebook balanced on her knee, her body’s feline transformations lending her a kind of compact, self-contained grace. She wore a loose men’s t-shirt over her suit, the blonde cat ears poking up incongruously through a vintage bucket hat, tail flicking in silent time with her pen. Norah, meanwhile, was actually in the water, gliding up and down the length of the pool in a steady, workmanlike crawl—emerging at intervals to shake out her dark hair and then plunge straight back in, as if the air itself were less tolerable than the chlorine.

At the far end, Erin sprawled on a wide daybed, utterly nude except for the battered hiking shoes, her transformation’s embargo on clothing so well-established that everyone made a point not to look twice. Instead, Erin’s body drew attention the way a sculpture did: only after the mind registered what it was seeing did it notice the technical mastery, the lines and shadows, the way sunlight diffused along her ribs and thighs.

It was—Andi realized, as she took a breath and padded toward the group—a scene she would never have witnessed in her old life. Not because it was risqué (though, honestly, it was) but because the people here seemed so at ease in their own bodies, or at least in the idea of being seen.

The trick, of course, was that half the women here had been forcibly recalibrated to exist in their bodies in ways no one in the outside world would understand. Even so, the comfort was real, and it was contagious. Andi could feel her own awkwardness dissipate a little with every step.

Dawn was the first to spot her. She rolled off the float and paddled over, black bunny ears streaming water, grinning wide enough to show every tooth. “There she is!” she called, pitching her voice high. “Andi, you look amazing! Like a Bond villainess, but nice.”

Andi took it in stride. “Would you prefer the male version? I’m trying to burn through some of the mandatory minimum.”

Claire, who’d been observing from her post in the shade, scribbled a few lines and held up her notebook: You look perfect. Also, I brought snacks.

Andi gave her a grateful nod, then slipped off her sandals and sat on the flagstones. The black swimsuit clung a little too tightly at first, but the sensation was already fading beneath the sun’s warmth and the low, steady hum of girl chatter.

“You know,” Chloe piped up, glancing sidelong at Andi, “I think you’re the only one here whose body hasn’t been altered against your will. I mean, except for your own, but that doesn’t really count. Does it?”

Andi considered. “I guess not, since I can change back.”

Erin, who’d been half-dozing with one arm behind her head, raised an eyebrow. “That’s like saying, ‘I only visit the moon for fun.’ Most of us are stuck here. Some of us,” she shot a look at Norah, now doing a backstroke, “are adapting better than others.”

Norah surfaced, ran her hands through her hair, and said, “You should try it sometime. The water is freezing and the sunburn’s free.”

“I already burn if I’m in direct sunlight for more than five seconds,” said Chloe, deadpan. “It’s my superpower.”

Dawn, who had clambered out of the pool, knelt beside Andi and leaned in conspiratorially. “Is it weird?” she whispered. “Being like this? I mean, you were always kind of handsome as a dude, but—” She paused, considering. “This is next level.”

Andi had expected this line of questioning, and had rehearsed a few answers. “I think I’m mostly over the weirdness,” she said, truthfully. “At least, as long as I’m not standing up too fast. I keep forgetting the difference in center of gravity.”

That got a round of giggles.

“But why the girl-mode today?” asked Chloe. “You don’t have to, right?”

“Had to. There’s a quota, and I wanted to burn through some of that time as soon as possible,” said Andi. “But also, I figured it was less confusing if we’re all in pool mode together. No competition, no dates. Just the girls.” She gestured at the array of swimsuits, the three flavors of sunblock, the water bottles glinting on the tables. “Plus, I didn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable.”

Erin snorted. “Trust me. Comfort is a myth around here.”

Emi, who had been watching the exchange in silence, offered Andi a soft smile and six simultaneous thumbs-up. “You look happy,” she said, “which is nice. I don’t think I’ve seen you happy before. You’re more expressive as a girl.”

Andi blinked, surprised by the bluntness, and was about to answer when a blur of cat-tail and notebook materialized beside her.

Claire. She sat down, legs crossed, then gently pressed a slip of paper into Andi’s palm. In her neat, careful script: If you wanted, you could join me in the shade. Less risk of sunburn, more privacy.

It was so Claire that Andi smiled, involuntarily, and nodded, “I’d like that.”

Dawn made a mock-gag face, but Andi caught her winking as she wrung water from her ears.

As Andi rose, she felt a pulse of odd gratitude for how smoothly this was going. The conversation, the body, the whole weird social experiment—somehow, the group had normalized it in a way that made the “girl-mode” acceptable.

She moved with Claire to the shaded cabana at the end of the pool, noting how none of the other women seemed surprised by the pairing. She sat down on the lounge, knees up, while Claire tucked herself beside her with the efficiency of someone who’d spent a lifetime fitting into tight spaces.

They watched the activity at the pool’s edge in companionable silence for a few minutes. Chloe and Dawn orchestrated a slow, clumsy game of water volleyball, the former losing every point but looking delighted to be playing. Emi had migrated to a sun chair, where she read a dog-eared paperback with three hands and fiddled with her hair with the other three.

Andi wondered how long it would take for the rest of them to stop seeing her as an interloper—if, deep down, they ever would. It didn’t bother her as much as she thought it might. She found herself wanting to say something reassuring to Claire, just to break the inertia.

Claire, reading her mind, offered her the notebook.

You’re handling this better than you think, it said.

Andi smiled. “Is that a compliment, or a diagnosis?”

Claire’s pen moved. Both. Also, you look more relaxed than I’ve seen you in a long time. Emi is right. I think you show more emotion, as a girl.

Andi shook her head, surprised by the statement. “No. It’s… I like it. It’s nice seeing everyone comfortable. I think we needed it.” She paused. “No Riley, I notice.”

Claire shook her head. Chloe says she wouldn’t even look at her.

Andi sighed. “No surprise there.”

Claire nodded, nudged Andi’s shoulder with her own, then tucked her feet up on the lounge.

The sun had reached its lazy, post-meridian angle, baking the stone tiles and making the air above them waver in slow, syrupy ripples. Most of the group drifted in and out of the pool’s shallows, snacking on fruit and stretching out in the rays like contented cats. But Liesa sat alone, back against the white stucco wall at the pool’s edge, knees hugged up and gaze locked on the water’s surface as if searching for a pattern only she could see. She wore shorts and an open button-down over her bikini, and incongruously, she wore socks. Andi understood, however: she was keeping the arousal at bay from her second transformation.

Andi watched her for a while, weighing whether to intervene. She knew Liesa’s tells: the way she picked at the skin around her nails, the tendency to go still and quiet when her thoughts grew too heavy to manage. The others seemed not to notice, absorbed in their own pleasures, but Andi saw it—had seen it a dozen times, in a dozen settings, always just before the dam broke. And she wondered whether Liesa would respond more favorably to Andi, rather than Andy, having a difficult conversation with her.

She stood and made her way across the deck, careful to keep her stride casual. “Mind if I join you?” she said, letting her shadow overlap Liesa’s.

Liesa startled a little, then relaxed into a polite half-smile. “Is okay,” she said, voice soft. “You look good, by the way. In this—” she waved at the black swimsuit, her hand fluttering. “Better than I would.”

Andi snorted. “Not sure that’s a compliment for me, but thank you.” She lowered herself beside Liesa, knees touching, and let the moment hang. For a minute they just watched the pool, the hush between them growing deep enough to drown in.

Eventually, Liesa said, “You want to ask something?”

Andi didn’t waste time. “You left something behind in the labyrinth, didn’t you?”

The smile dropped from Liesa’s face like a curtain. Her fingers knotted tighter around her shin. “No one saw,” she whispered. “I made sure. How did you—?”

“You didn’t have to,” Andi said. She kept her tone gentle, but there was steel beneath it. “The cameras see everything.”

Liesa’s breath came shallow. “As does the Master,” she whispered. She looked away, tracing the edge of her shadow on the wall. “If you know, then you know what I did. Why ask?”

Andi let a slow breath out. “Because I want to hear you say it. I want you to have a chance to be honest.”

For a long time, Liesa said nothing. The silence was so complete that even the pool’s white noise faded away, leaving only the distant rattle of a cicada and the wet plip of Dawn’s laughter on the other side of the pool.

Finally, Liesa spoke. “It was the ribbon. Dawn’s, after she passed out. I—” Her throat closed up, and she had to start again. “I took it. I was very horny and confused and I thought it would be easy. She was not even awake. It was a challenge and I didn’t know that Claire had a plan. But it—it was not.” She shivered. “I did not know what would happen, or that it would—”

“Overwhelm you?” Andi supplied.

Liesa nodded. “I was already on fire. My second transformation. When the ribbon wrapped on my arm, I felt I was going to explode. I had to throw it away.” Her hands began to shake, and she pressed them flat against the tile to keep them steady. “I did not mean for Norah to have to fix it. I just—I did not know what Claire was doing. And then it was too late, and I had to act like nothing happened.”

Andi put a hand on Liesa’s, careful and light. “Why haven’t you told anyone?”

Liesa laughed, brittle. “Would you? Dawn is my friend. If she knew—”

“She’d understand,” Andi said, without any doubt. “As you said, it was a challenge. You didn’t know Claire was putting together a plan.”

Liesa’s eyes filled with shame, and she ducked her head. “I would not,” she said, voice a whisper. “I am always the one who ruins things. I do not want to be that again.”

They sat in the shadow of the palms, the only movement the slow, silent fall of a tear down Liesa’s cheek.

“I’m not going to tell anyone,” Andi said. “But you need to, before the next challenge. The longer you wait, the harder it’ll get. I promise you that.”

Liesa nodded, wiping her cheek on her arm. “I know. But I do not have your courage.”

“You don’t need it,” said Andi. “You just need to be honest. Let the chips fall.”

A long silence, then: “Will you be angry if I cannot?”

Andi squeezed her hand, then let go. It was time for a little tough love. “No. But I’ll be disappointed. And I think you don’t want to see that.”

Liesa laughed again, this time with a wet edge. “I am already disappointed in myself. One more will not kill me.”

But there was something lighter in her posture, a sense of relief at having been found out and still left intact.

They sat together until the sun dropped lower, throwing the whole cabana into blue shade. Only then did Liesa stand, brush her hands on her thighs, and say, “Thank you for not hating me.”

Andi smiled, all forgiveness. “You’re not the only one who’s made mistakes, Liesa.”

Liesa nodded, then, as if by reflex, pulled Andi into a sudden, fierce hug. It lasted only a second, but when she stepped back, the shame had bled out of her eyes.

“Go back to Claire,” said Liesa. “She looks sad, waiting for you.” She stood and walked back inside the hotel.

Andi lingered in the shade another minute, then headed back to the pool.

The afternoon unraveled into a kind of pleasant chaos: the pool’s surface no longer placid, but a riot of foam and laughter, voices rising and falling with the wind. Andi returned from her talk with Liesa to find that Claire had claimed her again—this time, at the pool’s edge, toes pointed toward the water, notebook balanced on one knee. For someone who kept saying she was not jealous, Claire was doing a good job of always being nearby. Her expression was focused, ears and tail both at attention.

Andi sat beside her. “Deep thoughts?”

Claire blinked, then offered the notebook:

Trying to figure out the math.

Andi read it, then grinned. “Pool party statistics?”

Claire shook her head, scribbling, then held up the next page:

Fertility rates, actually. No birth control on the island. I checked. With my current transformation, my odds are double. Around 6% during my safe period. But around 70%, at my most fertile.

"Worried?" Andi asked, careful to keep her tone neutral.

Claire's ears flicked in embarrassment. She wrote:

Not worried. Just… curious. Wondered if you ever thought about it.

Andi tried to imagine her own face as a parent—her awkward, gangly DNA mashed together with the wild card of transformation magic. She almost laughed, but the moment was too genuine to risk. "I think about it," she admitted. "Sometimes it's scary. Mostly it feels…" She shrugged. "Kind of amazing."

Claire tapped her pencil against the page, then wrote:

So how do we... you know. With no protection? Should we just avoid certain days?

Andi felt heat rise in her cheeks. "We could. Arabella also mentioned something being added to the Commissary. Or we could be… careful in other ways." She lowered her voice. "There are things we could do that wouldn't risk anything."

Claire's ears perked up, then flattened against her head. Her pencil moved quickly:

Like what exactly?

"Hands," Andi whispered. "Mouths. Just… not everything at once."

Claire's tail swished against the tile. She wrote:

And on the safe days?

Andi swallowed. "Whatever we want."

Claire seemed to take this as permission. She wrote:

Do you think they would have ears, too? And tail?

Andi pictured it, tried not to giggle, then said, "If they did, they'd be the best kids ever."

Claire's mouth twitched. She leaned in, head on Andi's shoulder. They sat like that for a while, watching the world go by, letting the possibility hang between them like a thread of sunlight.

When Andi managed to break free, she found Dawn perched at the top of the diving board, bunny ears swiveled back, arms outstretched in a pose of pure, uncut energy. She bounced once, twice, and then launched herself into the air—a tight, perfect cannonball that sent up a wall of spray.

Andi applauded. “Ten out of ten, for style and for ****.”

Dawn surfaced, hair plastered to her face, grinning. “You gotta see this,” she said. “Watch my ears. They do the thing now.” She clambered up the ladder, water streaming off her, then stood at attention. “Ask me something embarrassing,” she challenged, ears pricked forward.

Andi considered. “Do you normally sleep in pants, as you said when you first arrived, or just in panties like you were dressed then?”

Dawn’s ears blushed pink, then wilted to the sides. “That was one time,” she squeaked, hands clapped over her face. “I was going through stuff.”

Andi laughed. “It’s adorable. Do they always match your mood?”

Dawn nodded, bouncing on her heels. “It’s actually kinda fun. Also, I wanted to say—thanks. For not, you know, making it weird after everything. With Norah and me. I’m glad she’s okay.”

Andi was quiet for a second, then said, “You make this place better, Dawn. No matter what.”

Dawn ducked her head, then said, “You should see how high I can jump now. Bet I could clear the fence if I tried.”

“Please don’t,” Andi said, but she knew Dawn would try anyway, and somehow, that was the point.

On the far side of the pool, Emi had stationed herself beneath a striped umbrella, sketchbook open, tongue caught between her teeth as she filled a page with quick, looping lines. Andi sat across from her, folding her legs underneath herself.

“Whatcha drawing?”

Emi looked up, all six arms going still at once. She blushed, then turned the page around to show Andi a field of women—each one different, but instantly recognizable. Marissa, hair tied back and head bent over a book; Dawn, mid-air, ears flying; Chloe, hands cradling a mountain of breast. At the center, a tall man and a slightly shorter woman wearing the same sly smile, and looking close enough to be siblings. Andy and Andi.

“I thought if I drew everyone, maybe I’d remember to talk to them more,” Emi explained. “Sometimes it’s easier to draw than to… you know. Be brave.”

Andi studied the page, noting how Emi’s own likeness was smaller, at the edge of the group, almost fading into the background. “You could make yourself bigger,” Andi said, quietly.

Emi shook her head. “I don’t want to take up too much space.”

“Emi, we talked about this. You should,” said Andi. “If anyone here deserves it, it’s you.”

“I don’t know how.” Emi admitted, then hesitated. “Do you think you could…?” She gestured ambiguously towards her smartwatch. Andi blinked, then realized what she was asking.

“Coauthor? You are the second person who brings it up. I don’t know. Emi, I don’t like the idea of being able to change you all so easily. Maybe if it’s a critical issue, but as it is… where do I stop? Do I make Riley happy with me? Make Chloe super-confident?” She watched Emi’s disappointment and she shook her head. “Look, let’s do this. Think about it. Take your time. If, by the end of the round, you still want me to help you, tell me and I will consider it. Okay?”

Emi nodded looked down, fingers fidgeting. “I think you’re getting better at this, too,” she said. “Talking to people. Being here.”

“I’m still learning,” Andi admitted.

Emi smiled, a shy thing. “If you ever need help, I could draw you a map.”

Next up was Marissa. She sat alone at a table near the snack bar, sunglasses perched on her head, fingers steepled as if in prayer. When Andi approached, Marissa glanced up, then motioned her to sit.

“Hey,” she said. The word was so soft and lush that Andi felt it shiver up her arms. She realized, too late, that Marissa’s transformation was already in play—the ASMR whisper, the resonance that tugged at every nerve ending like a puppet string.

“Could you not do the thing?” Andi asked, ****.

Marissa smiled. “I am not doing it on purpose.” Her voice got even softer, and Andi caught a whimper from the next table, where Chloe was melting in her seat. “But I can try to keep it quiet.”

Andi did her best to stay focused. “You okay?”

Marissa shrugged, arms crossed. “I am. The transformations are… interesting. But I worry what they’ll do next. I’d like to check the Commissary tonight, see if there’s anything useful to buy. Maybe something to shield everyone from my voice.”

Andi laughed, though the sound was shaky. “You could weaponize it, honestly.”

Marissa smiled, genuine. “I would prefer to be a healer, not a hazard.”

Andi nodded, unable to meet her eyes. “Let me know if you need anything. I mean that.”

Marissa’s gaze lingered. “I know, and you too,” she whispered. The sound trailed after Andi, even as she stood to leave.

Sam caught her by the towel rack, blue hair still wet from the pool and a new bruise blooming on her knee. “Hey,” Sam said, “can we talk?”

“Always,” said Andi.

Sam glanced around, then pulled her close. “It’s about Liesa. She’s weird, right? Since yesterday?”

Andi weighed her answer, then said, “She’s carrying a lot. Some of it’s guilt, but some of it’s just who she is.”

Sam nodded, chewing her lip. “Do you think she’s mad at me?”

Andi shook her head. “I think she likes you. No, it’s something else. But she’s scared you’ll leave, like everyone else.”

Sam absorbed this, then grinned. “I’m not going anywhere.” She punched Andi’s shoulder, light. “Neither are you. And next date night, I’ll destroy you at chess.”

Andi grinned. “I’ll look forward to it.”

Norah was next, sprawled on a towel, hair haloed around her head, sunglasses reflecting the high blue of the sky. Her heeled shoes sat, incongruously, next to her towel. When Andi flopped down beside her, Norah didn’t move for a while. She just lay there, breathing, as if her whole body was learning how to be heavy and relaxed.

After a bit, Norah said, “You know what I realized?”

“What?”

“I don’t care about winning. Not anymore. Before, I wanted to be first, or best, or at least not last. But now, I just want to see what happens. Who survives. Who’s left, when all the sand’s drained out.”

Andi nodded, listening.

“It’s weird, but I think I’m happier this way,” Norah continued. “I have a family here. Even if it’s the weirdest, most dysfunctional family on earth.”

Andi smiled. “You’re a good harem sister.”

Norah huffed a laugh. “Don’t push it.”

She found Chloe next to a tangle of pool noodles, skin flushed from sun and effort, hair a wild mess around her face. She looked up, saw Andi, and blushed even harder.

“Hey,” she said. “Can I tell you a secret?”

Andi, a little startled, nodded.

Chloe scooted closer, her voice a whisper. “It’s easier to talk to you when you’re like this. In girl form. I mean, you’re still you, but… the other you is too handsome. It makes me nervous.”

Andi barked a laugh, then said, “You could have told me. I’d have swapped sooner.”

Chloe giggled, then leaned in and kissed Andi’s cheek—a sweet, lingering thing. “Thank you for listening,” she said.

Andi smiled, but let the moment hang. It was nice, being needed in so many different ways.

By late afternoon, the group had formed a flotilla of floats and rafts at the deep end of the pool. Claire, Dawn, Emi, Andi, and Erin all gathered together, linking hands or limbs as they drifted. Erin floated on her back, one arm draped strategically across her chest, the other hand occasionally tugging at the water as if to pull herself deeper beneath its surface. Dawn tried to balance all the way across a noodle bridge, failed, and splashed down in a fit of laughter. Emi joined her, six arms flailing, then pulled Claire in after her with a single, perfectly-aimed tug. She may have been partly cat, but it seemed Claire still liked the water.

Andi jumped last, plunging in and surfacing between Dawn and Claire, who immediately claimed her shoulders and wouldn’t let go.

The laughter echoed off the water, tangled with the shouts of victory and surrender. Andi felt herself buoyed—not just by the pool, but by the surge of camaraderie, the sense that for a few hours, they were all just people, not pawns or prizes.

As the sun bent low and stretched the shadows long, the pool’s energy shifted from wild to languid. The air had that golden, late-summer density that made every sound—voices, splashes, the slap of bare feet on flagstone—feel suspended, preserved for later.

Sam had planted herself on the pool steps next to Claire, both of them half-submerged, knees pressed together in solidarity. Sam leaned in, hands animated as she said, “You have to teach me your system. The one with the codes. I saw you use it in the challenge.” She sighed. “Perhaps we should all learn it. It could have helped.”

Claire’s ears swiveled with pride. She retrieved her notebook from the edge, scribbled for a moment, then handed it to Sam: Marissa and I came up with it last week. Didn’t have time. It’s just a mix of finger signals. Communicates basic information. I can teach you.

Sam grinned. “Teach me. The next challenge, we may need it.” She rolled her shoulders, prepping like a linebacker, then followed as Claire demonstrated. Sam picked it up fast, improvising a few of her own. “If I add a little jazz hand, does that mean sabotage?” she asked, flexing her fingers.

Claire gave her a small smile, pale blonde ears twitching. Sam mimicked the motion, and they both burst out laughing, Claire’s laughter silent, but Sam’s laughter sounding so clear and sharp that Andi paused to watch them, feeling something unclench inside her chest.

A few feet away, Emi had set up an origami station on a lounge chair, her lap covered in pastel squares. Dawn sat cross-legged beside her, bunny ears quivering with concentration as Emi’s six arms blurred through the folds.

“It’s all about the creases,” Emi said, demonstrating. “You want them sharp, not messy.”

Dawn tried, tongue poking out as she smoothed a pink square. “This is harder than it looks,” she admitted, wadding her first attempt into a lumpy ball. Emi just smiled, deftly creating a crane with two hands while the others started another.

“Try again,” Emi encouraged. “You’re almost there.”

Dawn did, and this time it worked—a wonky, beautiful bird that barely balanced on its own feet. She held it up, beaming. “I did it!”

Emi nodded, proud. “You did.” She reached out with one of her hands, squeezed Dawn’s, and Dawn squeezed back, the connection real and immediate.

“Thank you,” Dawn said. “For helping me. And for, you know, just being nice. Not everyone here gets how hard it is to learn new things.”

Emi smiled, a little shy. “It’s easy, when you have good company.”

They started folding more birds, side by side, the scraps and mistakes piling up in a soft, colorful drift.

Marissa and Chloe had found a quieter corner, just out of earshot. Marissa kept her voice to a velvet murmur, careful not to trigger Chloe’s latest transformation. “You said the anxiety spikes at night?” she asked, notepad open on her knee.

Chloe nodded, then added, “It’s worse if I haven’t eaten, or if there’s, um, too much happening at once.” She glanced down, self-conscious.

Marissa listened, then said, “There’s a breathing technique I could show you. But only if you want.”

“I’d like that,” Chloe said. “Just—can you not look at me when you say it? Your voice…”

Marissa smiled, understanding. “I’ll write it down for you.” She did, careful and methodical, then slid the page over. “You’re not alone, you know. Most of us are scared out of our minds.”

Chloe read the note, then looked up, eyes wet but steady. “Thanks, Marissa. I mean it.”

Marissa placed a gentle hand on Chloe’s wrist, then left her to practice, the new calm in Chloe’s breath visible even from across the pool.

Liesa and Erin sat together on the pool’s edge, feet dangling in the cool water. They were both quiet for a while, content just to watch the ripples.

“You know,” Liesa said finally, “when I first came here, I hated the idea of being seen. Even with the transformations, I thought maybe I could hide.”

Erin nodded, her expression unreadable.

“But then I realized,” Liesa continued, “sometimes you have to let people look, so they know you’re not afraid.”

“I’m still afraid,” Erin admitted, voice flat. “But less than before.”

Liesa looked at her, eyes kind. “It’s okay to be afraid. I think the trick is to own it, not let it own you.” She splashed a little, sending up tiny diamonds of water. “Besides, if you ever need to hide, I can paint you a disguise. You’d blend in anywhere.”

Erin snorted, but smiled. “Thanks,” she said, softer now. “You’re not so bad at this, you know.”

“At what?”

“Being a friend.”

They both stared at the water, the silence this time warm and easy.

When the shadows turned blue and the first moths battered against the porch lights, Andi called the group to the deck. She’d put on a sundress for the occasion—her one nod to the evening’s importance—and found that it fit better than expected, even with the swimsuit underneath.

“I’m headed in,” she announced. “Got to prep for my night with Erin.” She made it sound like a joke, but there was a gravity to it, a sense that this wasn’t just another date. The others felt it, too. The mood was a mix of teasing and real hope.

Sam whistled. “Try not to break the bed,” she said.

Dawn hopped in place, hands clasped. “You’ll do great! If you need snacks, I’ll sneak you some.”

Marissa just smiled, but her eyes were kind. “Good luck.”

She found Erin near the towel rack, dripping and hunched, arms crossed over her chest in a futile attempt at modesty. Erin's fingers had worried the edge of a towel to fraying, though she couldn't wrap it around herself—the rules wouldn't allow it. Her eyes darted to Andi, then away, then back. "Ready?" Andi asked, voice low.

Erin swallowed hard, shoulders curling inward. "I think so. As much as I'll ever be."

Andi offered her hand, and Erin took it, fingers squeezing just a little too tight, as if the connection might somehow clothe her.

Together, they walked away from the pool, Erin's steps stiff, her free arm still trying to shield what couldn't be hidden. As they reached the end of the deck, Andi looked back and saw the group—scattered but united, laughing and talking, folding cranes and scribbling codes, faces all turned toward the fading sun.

She squeezed Erin’s hand, and Erin squeezed back, and for the first time all day, Andi let herself hope that this time, things might actually turn out okay.

The last light caught on the surface of the pool, burning gold and perfect, as the two of them stepped into the dusk.