The Waiting, Part 1

When Andy disappeared into the Suite with Laura, the air on the gazebo platform remained trembling, as if the sunrise itself didn’t dare move. The torches still guttered, their orange light painting half the harem’s faces in sickly yellow and the other half in shadow, the effect more Halloween than hope. Nobody spoke. Nobody even sat. They just lingered, hunched and unsure, like castaways too numb to start building a signal fire.

Sam was the first to break the silence. She uncrossed her arms, flexed her hands, and cleared her throat with a professional neutrality that echoed from the bad old days—the time before all of this, when disaster had a script. “Hey,” she said, not quite loud, not quite soft, “anyone want water? We should…” She gestured vaguely at the horizon, at the line of the Main Building winking through the palms. “Let’s head back before the sun fries us. I’m not in the mood to get poached.”

Her voice didn’t have the rallying effect she’d intended, but it did loosen something in the collective backbone. Dawn blinked, shaking herself like a dog waking up from a nap, and reached for Emily’s hand. Myra stood very still, her blind eyes still damp, her lips moving without making any sound. Liesa, somehow, had found a way to lean against one of the white posts in a pose that was simultaneously seductive and utterly exhausted, her knees threatening to buckle with every pulse. Marissa held her composure, but her eyes kept darting toward the path as if afraid Andy might come back at any moment and announce it had all been a cruel prank.

Chloe and Riley hadn’t moved since the moment Laura and Andy had vanished down the stairs; they looked like a freeze-frame from a family disaster, arms locked around each other, both crying and neither willing to acknowledge it. Norah, despite her heels and the weight of her own breasts, managed to stand the most upright, her jaw set like she could physically **** the world into a different shape by grinding her teeth hard enough. Emi clung to Claire’s elbow, and the catgirl had both hands tight around her notebook, as if she planned to throttle someone with paper cuts if the universe tried anything else.

Sam watched all of this with the eyes of a lifeguard on a crowded day, counting heads and checking for the telltale blue of drowning just under the surface. She had been a lifeguard in between moving to New York and founding The Blue Bean, and outside of Myra, she was the one who’d seen the most disasters: the failed resuscitations, the unfixable injuries, the mornings after when everything that could go wrong had, and all that was left was to shepherd people home and hope nobody noticed how much she was shaking.

She started moving through the group, checking in the smallest ways—touching a shoulder, squeezing a hand, catching a glance. Dawn’s pulse was steady, but her lips were white and she kept glancing back at the empty space where Andy had stood. “You okay?” Sam murmured, and Dawn nodded, but the nod looked like it might turn into a breakdown if it lasted one second longer.

Next was Myra, who kept her hands folded in front of her as if waiting for a judge’s verdict. “Hey,” Sam said, voice softer this time, “can I walk you?” She didn’t expect Myra to answer, but the blind woman took her arm anyway, trembling just enough for Sam to feel it through the bone.

Emily was a wild card. She wasn’t crying, wasn’t talking, wasn’t even blinking; she looked at the sea with her mouth half-open and her eyes so hollow it was like she’d seen herself die in the reflection. Her long pink-and-blonde hair managed, as always, to cover her breasts and everything else—except her feelings, which were clearly out on display, if only anyone cared to look.

Sam moved to touch her, but Emily pulled away, her lips twitching in a wan imitation of a smile. “I’m fine,” Emily lied, then added, “I just need to sit down.” She didn’t. She just stood there, letting her hair fall around her face like a willow in high wind.

Marissa was next. She kept a perfect, therapist’s posture, but Sam could see her knees shaking under her skirt, and the way she stared at nothing with the flat focus of someone cataloging every single memory, just in case the world decided to take one more thing away. “Group walk?” Sam offered, but Marissa shook her head, silent, and fell in step anyway.

Erin and Claire stood apart, holding hands with the tension of two people pretending they were not about to break. Erin looked like she’d been run through a washing machine set to despair. Her hair hung in clumped ropes, dripping all over her enormous breasts, and her feet were planted so wide apart it looked like she might drop into a split just to prove a point. Claire’s tail wrapped around Erin’s calf, an accidental knot, and the look on her face was pure algorithms—every possible version of the future running at once, none of them making sense.

Sam paused when she reached them. For a moment, she saw not Erin the impossible plant-woman, but Erin as she’d been in the study room—the sharp, ****, hopeful girl from the Garden vision, the one who’d allowed her defenses to lower for the awkward boy who had approached her with a question. Sam wanted to say something to her, something about holding on, or about how sometimes the best thing you can do is just make it to the next hour. Instead, she said, “Can I get you anything?” and waited for the answer.

Erin shook her head, slow and resigned. “Let’s just get out of here,” she said, and that was the first time anyone used a voice above a whisper.

The procession off the gazebo was slow and awkward, no one wanting to be first, everyone unwilling to be last. Sam herded them with gentle pressure, a word here, a nod there, letting them fall into a clump rather than a line. The crunch of gravel under their feet was the only sound besides the morning birds and the low, omnipresent hum of exhaustion. When they passed the spot where the blue rose had crumbled to dust, nobody looked down, nobody lingered.

Nobody mentioned the elimination. Nobody asked who had lost to the Garden. Nobody wanted to name the dead, so to speak, while the miracle of Laura was still settling into their bones. Nobody knew if Andy had done something, or planned to do something, or even could do anything to stop the elimination. Arabella was nowhere to be found, so there were no answers to be found. It was as if they all agreed, in some primal way, that the cost could be counted later. For now, the only thing that mattered was that Laura was alive, and Andy was alive, and maybe, if they kept moving, the universe would allow the world not to change any further.

When the Main Building came into view, the group paused at the edge of the lawn. The torches here were already snuffed, the lawn dewed over with a shimmering white, and the windows of the lobby reflected the entire group back at themselves: a ragtag, salt-stained, sleepless collection of women, none of them whole, all of them survivors.

Sam did a final headcount—twelve, now, with Laura and Andy gone. For the first time in what felt like a week, she let herself exhale.

She watched as the group drifted inside, drawn by the scent of coffee and the promise of air conditioning and, maybe, a locked door and a moment to fall apart alone. Marissa steered Myra through the automatic doors, and Dawn followed with Emily still at her side. Chloe and Riley peeled off, arms still fused around each other, and Sam lost track of them after the lobby swallowed them whole. Erin and Claire lingered at the door, then vanished together, Claire’s tail flicking once behind her in what might have been relief or defeat.

Sam stood for a minute in the entryway, letting the cool hit her face, letting the shock and the gratitude and the exhaustion blend together into something almost manageable. Then she turned and went inside, following the others—not because she had answers, or even a plan, but because if there was one thing she’d learned in all her years of disaster, it was this: You stick together. Even when it feels like you’re the last people left on earth.

They made it halfway down the empty corridor before Erin realized she’d been dragging Claire by the hand for the last several yards. She let go with a muttered apology and used her palm to push open the door to Room 143. The lock gave easily, swinging wide on well-oiled hinges, and the room beyond was a cave of filtered blue: ocean out the windows, the faint hush of the lagoon, glass floor glowing with a scatter of bioluminescent fish below.

Claire padded in first, feet silent as rumor, her tail twitching the way it always did when she was bracing for bad news. Erin hesitated on the threshold. Her nipples felt raw; the air-conditioning blew cold against her mint-green skin and she shivered, even though she technically couldn’t get cold anymore. Her hair, still half-dried, hung in a curtain down her back, collecting the last beads of saltwater that hadn’t yet been sweated out by the walk from the beach.

Claire was waiting by the small couch. She looked up at Erin, made a gesture—four fingers fanned flat against her heart, then a quick flick of the wrist outward. Erin wasn’t fluent in the shorthand Claire and Marissa had developed, but she understood the gist: I’m okay. You?

“Never better,” Erin said, sarcasm failing to even leave a dent. She managed a laugh anyway, hollow and too loud for the low ceiling. Claire offered a wan smile, then sat, legs tucked beneath her and tail wrapped tight around her calves like a security blanket.

Erin kicked off her sneakers and flopped onto the other end of the couch, careful not to crush Claire’s toes. They sat in silence for a while, watching the glass floor, the slow drift of glowing fish below. The hush was punctuated by the dull thunk of their own heartbeats, by the damp scratch of fabric against Claire’s thigh whenever she shifted.

The couch was too small for two people, really, but neither was interested in moving. It was a comfortable stuckness. A silence that felt earned.

Claire had her notebook out. She wrote in quick, tight script, the pen scratching like a mouse in the wall. When she finished a sentence, she tore off the page and slid it across the cushions to Erin.

How are you supposed to react when the ghost is real?

Erin squinted at the tight, cramped handwriting. The letters leaned right, rushing toward the future, and she found herself tracing them with her thumb before replying. “I’m still calibrating,” she said, not even sure Claire was expecting an answer.

Claire nodded, then scribbled: If I said I’d been waiting for the other shoe to drop since the day he accepted, would you think less of me?

Erin snorted. “I was engaged less than three days before you, so if I start judging, you can throw me off the balcony.” She slid the note back, and Claire raised her eyebrows, amused but unconvinced.

I don’t actually want to throw you anywhere.

That made Erin grin—brief, almost involuntary, but real. The room fell silent again, broken only by the slap of waves against the glass and the slow, methodical thumping of Erin’s heart. She watched the glowing fish, the way their pale bodies drifted in lazy circles, and wondered if anything in the world was actually awake right now.

“Can I be honest?” Erin said, shifting to sit cross-legged, her thighs pressed to the edge of the couch. “The minute he told me he wanted to marry me, my first thought was: what’s going to fuck this up? Because nothing in his life ever works out that neat.”

Claire nodded, scribbled again, but this time she just held the pen—poised, thinking. Erin watched her face, the way her mouth pressed into a thin line when she didn’t trust herself to emote.

Finally, Claire wrote: So is this our reality now? We wait for the ghost to decide if she wants the living man?

Erin flinched. She hadn’t wanted to say it, not even to herself, but seeing it in ink was a punch. “I don’t think Laura gets to decide,” she said.

Claire’s reply was instant: You sure?

Erin wasn’t. Not even a little. She felt the heat in her cheeks, a flush of embarrassment at having lost control of the narrative so fast. For two weeks, she’d been on top of the world—plant-woman, almost Harem Queen, Andy’s first, best. Now the ground felt like a rickety raft, and every word she said made the river move faster.

“Do you think she even wants him?” Erin asked, softer. “She’s been dead longer than she was alive. If it were me, I’d haunt the place. I wouldn’t—” She let the sentence die, realizing it was cowardice, not philosophy, that made her say it.

Claire didn’t answer directly. She wrote: He’s in love with all of us. That’s not the problem.

“Yeah?” Erin shot back. “Then what is?”

Claire tapped her notebook, hesitating, and then handed over a page with three sentences on it:

I can feel his head. Right now, I feel: stunned, grateful, more exhausted than I’ve ever been. But also afraid, and so full of love it’s like being sick with it. We aren’t out of the equation. But I don’t know where we fit in it, either.

Erin felt the words crawling under her skin. She remembered how Andy’s eyes had looked as he carried Laura up the sand—ruined, beautiful, so full of relief and terror at the same time. She’d wanted to run to him, but she’d let him go. Because some things weren’t about her.

She sat back, closed her eyes, and let her brain go empty for a minute. The blue of the lagoon flickered against her eyelids, and she remembered for the first time in years what it felt like to be alone with her own thoughts.

“I’m scared,” she admitted. “Not of losing him, really. Just—scared I’ll find out I was always second best.” She opened her eyes, expecting to see pity or worse, but Claire just met her gaze, her blue eyes direct and unblinking.

Then Claire did something Erin didn’t expect. She moved closer, sliding down the couch until their knees touched. She closed the notebook and set it aside, then wrapped both arms around Erin’s shoulders and pulled her in. The embrace was awkward and tight and more honest than any words they’d exchanged.

Erin let herself lean into it, surprised by how much she needed the touch. Her body shivered, not from cold but from a kind of pent-up tension, a muscle she’d never allowed herself to use. Claire’s chin rested on the crown of her head, the two of them breathing in sync.

For a few minutes, neither spoke. It was the kind of comfort that said: We don’t have to solve this now.

Eventually, Claire let go, picked up her notebook, and wrote one final message:

We need to figure out what we want. Not just what we’re scared of.

Erin read the note, then laughed. “I have no idea,” she said. “I want him. Now I don’t know if I can have him, or anything.”

Claire nodded, scribbled, then handed over the last page: Sleep on it. We can panic again later in the morning.

Erin smiled, a real one this time, and stretched out along the couch, feet propped up on the armrest. Claire curled beside her, tail flicking lazily, her hand settling into Erin’s hair in a gesture so natural it barely registered as new.

They drifted together in the blue-lit hush, the weight of the world parked outside the door for now. There would be plenty of time to invent new anxieties in the afternoon. For this morning, all they owed each other was a little warmth, a little forgiveness, and the promise that neither of them would face the future alone.

They walked together, but not together. The gravel path cut a pale stripe through the lawn, dew still clinging to every blade of grass, and neither Riley nor Chloe spoke as they moved toward the Main Building. Each step left a darker wet patch, a footprint that would vanish before noon.

Chloe’s face was so white it was almost blue. Her hands were locked at her sides, not in fists, but in a kind of patient surrender. Riley could tell, even without looking, that the girl was halfway to a panic spiral; her chest was doing that hummingbird flutter, and her mouth kept opening like she wanted to swallow the whole sky just to keep breathing.

They brushed arms once, accidentally. The contact made Chloe flinch, but then she steadied herself and kept walking, keeping pace with Riley even as her steps got smaller and smaller.

Riley didn’t talk. Words were useless for the first part, and she knew enough about trauma to respect the silence. They’d both seen too much—more than the world could reasonably expect two women to carry—and if it meant they finished the walk in absolute quiet, then fine. That was its own kind of prayer.

At the edge of the lawn, Chloe stopped. She bent over, hands on her knees, and sucked in three shallow breaths before straightening up. Her hair was limp, the ends still wet, but her eyes were sharp and wet and rimmed with red.

Riley waited, watching the sun peek up over the pool. She wanted to light a cigarette, wanted to do something with her hands, but the air on the island had no time for old addictions. Instead, she just waited.

“I can’t,” Chloe said. Her voice was thin. “I can’t go inside yet.”

Riley nodded. “We can wait.”

They stood in the sunrise, the cold gold catching on Chloe’s L-cup breasts, making the oversized shirt she’d borrowed from the hotel glow like it was lit from within. Riley caught herself staring, then looked away, embarrassed at her own impulse.

Chloe hugged herself. “Did you ever… think she would come back?”

Riley considered. “No.”

“I did,” Chloe said, and then shook her head. “No, that’s not true. I wanted her to, but I never thought she would.”

Riley looked out at the water. “It’s not normal,” she said, and then, when Chloe laughed—small, ugly, involuntary—she felt a flush of guilt. “But what on this island is?”

Chloe’s breathing hitched again. “I don’t even know how to feel,” she said. “It’s like the last sixteen years didn’t happen. It’s like I’m back in middle school and she’s alive and I get to say sorry, but…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “But it won’t make a difference.”

Riley’s jaw worked. “You’re not the only one who feels that way,” she said. “I sent her to die. I’ve been living with that since I was a kid.”

Chloe’s shoulders bunched up. “I caused it, Riley. If I hadn’t—if I hadn’t been so—” She stopped, unable to find the word.

“Stupid?” Riley offered, but not cruelly. “We were all stupid. We were thirteen.”

“Yeah.” Chloe shuddered, the cold finally reaching her bones. “But I’m not anymore.”

“No,” Riley said. “You’re not.”

Chloe glanced sideways. “She’s going to hate me,” she whispered. “She’s going to look at me and see the girl who killed her.”

“That’s not how it works,” Riley said, but the conviction wasn’t there. She wanted to reach out, to squeeze Chloe’s shoulder, but the moment was too raw. So she just stood, and let the words hang.

The silence stretched out so far that even the birds seemed **** to break it. Riley studied the scuffed toe of her boot, the way the leather had gone green with salt. She wanted to say something—something useful, or maybe just something—but the words kept catching on her tongue. She thought about all the times she’d watched the aftershocks of loss in the waiting room, how sometimes the only thing that worked was to let it ring out, and trust the echo to fade on its own.

Chloe did not cry. She only stood with her chin tucked and her hands folded, arms pressed so tightly to her sides that her breasts strained the seams of the hotel shirt. When she did finally look at Riley, it was through a mask of calm that fooled no one.

“You know what’s messed up?” Chloe said, her voice raw with the effort of sounding normal. “All I can think about is whether she’s going to recognize me.”

Riley grunted. “She will.”

Chloe’s lips quivered, and she squeezed her own elbows until her knuckles whitened. “I hope not.” Then, after a moment: “But also I hope she does.”

Riley let the moment hold. She watched the sky, the way the light shimmered off the top of the palm trees, the color already brightening toward noon. “You’re allowed to want both,” she said finally.

“I don’t want to see the look on her face,” Chloe whispered. She licked her lips, as if the taste might bring something back. “I don’t want her to remember what I did.”

Riley shifted her weight, gravel crunching. “She won’t.” When Chloe looked at her—sharp, disbelieving—Riley shrugged. “She was a kid. She forgave easy.”

Chloe made a sound, half laugh and half sob. “That’s not true. She could hold a grudge for a year if she wanted to, and you know it.” Chloe wiped at her eyes. “I never even got to apologize, not really.”

Riley considered the words, let them sit, then replied. “Neither did I.” Her hands wanted to reach out, but she kept them at her sides, letting the tension build until it was almost unbearable. “You think I didn’t blame myself?” she said. “You think I didn’t replay every word I ever said to her? If I’d just—” She cut herself off, jaw clenched so hard it clicked.

Chloe stared at the grass. “If I’d just not listened to Nina, if I’d just walked away—” She shook her head. “It’s all a fucking domino set.”

They stood there, the self-accusations building up in the air between them, until it felt like a second sunrise was about to break.

Chloe exhaled. “When I saw her on the beach, I felt like I was thirteen again. Not in a good way. In a… like I’d just lost everything, but also I got another chance to ruin it.” She tried to laugh but failed. “I thought I’d grown up, you know? But then there she was. And all I could think was: please don’t hate me, please don’t hate me, please don’t—”

Riley held her gaze, and the pain behind it. “You grew up,” she said. “You survived. She’d want that.”

Chloe flinched, as if struck. “I’m not sure I deserved to.”

Riley finally let herself touch Chloe’s arm—just above the elbow, her thumb firm. “Don’t do that. Don’t.” She waited for the words to land. “You think I haven’t thought about trading places with her? I have. Every day.”

Chloe’s mouth trembled. “I have, too.” She squeezed Riley’s hand, holding on like a lifeline. “Sometimes I wonder if that’s all that’s left of me. Just… being the one who went away.”

Riley shook her head. “It’s not all there is. It’s just the part that never shuts up.” She looked out at the ocean, the way the light caught the ripples, and then back at Chloe. “You want to know the truth? I was almost glad she was gone, after a while. It hurt less.”

Chloe gawked. “You don’t mean that.”

Riley didn’t blink. “I do. I had to. I wouldn’t have made it if I didn’t.” She was crying, now, tears running down her face, but her voice was steady. “L’s whole life was about daring the world to love her, and it never worked out for her. I never wanted that to be me.”

For a long time, neither spoke. The air filled with birdsong, the slow crunch of the surf, the low hum of distant voices from the Main Building.

Finally, Chloe said, “I’m scared to see her. I’m scared she’ll look right through me.” She managed a laugh, wet and small. “I’m scared she’ll be mad, or worse, that she’ll forgive me and I’ll just mess it all up again.”

Riley nodded, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. “Yeah. Me too.”

Chloe flexed her fingers. “So what do we do?”

Riley shrugged, but her hand tightened on Chloe’s. “We show up. We don’t run away this time. Even if it hurts.”

Chloe let the words settle. She brushed at her cheeks, breathing in slow, measured pulses, and for the first time, her hands dropped to her sides. She straightened her posture. “We show up,” she repeated.

Riley grinned, lopsided. “That’s what friends do, right?”

Chloe smiled, the first real one since the beach, and then they walked the last hundred feet together, arms occasionally brushing, neither letting go of the other’s hand until they reached the lobby doors.

They had barely made it five steps past the platform before Myra’s legs started to give. Her grip on Dawn’s forearm was so tight that Dawn worried about circulation, but she didn’t say a word. She just shifted her weight to support the taller woman, murmured “Got you, it’s all right,” and let Myra lean as much as she needed.

The morning sun was bright enough to sting, but the path from the gazebo to the Main Building wound through a corridor of hibiscus hedges and soft-leafed greenery, the shadows cool and dappled. Dawn kept her voice low and steady, half for Myra’s benefit and half because she needed to hear it herself.

“Watch your step here,” she said as they neared the split in the path, “the stones are uneven.” She narrated the world for Myra, but didn’t overdo it—the woman had been on the island almost as long as she had, and probably knew it by scent and sound better than any of them. Still, there was comfort in the habit, and maybe Myra needed something to anchor her to the present.

They moved slow, and that was fine. Dawn could feel the tension winding and unwinding in Myra’s body; sometimes she would tremble, sometimes she’d stiffen, sometimes she’d seem to float for a few steps before crashing back into the weight of herself.

“Myra?” Dawn said, as they hit the first patch of sunlight. “You okay to walk, or should we rest a minute?”

Myra’s mouth worked, and for a long time nothing came out. At last, in a voice so soft Dawn had to lean in to catch it, Myra said, “If I stop, I won’t start again.”

“Okay,” Dawn said, and squeezed her wrist in silent agreement. “We’ll keep going.”

They passed under a low arch where the air changed, colder and smelling of moss and water. Dawn kept up her gentle narration: “Now we’re heading toward the pond, you’ll hear the frogs soon. The shade’s nice through here.”

She let the silence linger, hoping Myra would fill it when she was ready. It didn’t take long.

“I was there when she died,” Myra whispered. “In the vision. Liesa’s mother. She was—she was just gone, and Liesa had to find her. There was blood, and she was… gone.”

Dawn nodded, not sure Myra could see it, but hoping the motion carried in her voice. “I’m sorry.”

Myra’s jaw clenched. “It was the same for Riley. I was there when they brought her the news of her husband’s ****. He was dead before he left, you know? Riley knew it the minute she said goodbye. That’s what killed her. Not the visit. The knowing she had been right.”

Dawn adjusted her grip, slowing down for the next turn. “It was hard to watch,” she said. “Harder than I expected.”

Myra’s lips quirked in something like a smile, but then it collapsed. “I thought I was ready for anything, after what happened to my eyes.” She gave a short, hollow laugh. “That was dumb.”

Dawn shrugged. “You’re not supposed to be ready for this stuff. No one is.”

They walked another stretch in silence. Myra’s hand had eased a little, less ****-grip, more of a lean. The path sloped gently down, and the air grew warmer.

Dawn found herself thinking about the vision she’d seen: Emi at Laura’s funeral, the silence of it, the impossible grief. And then Emily with the woman in the Hollow Garden, feeding her, tucking her in, like she was caring for the world’s last survivor. She wasn’t sure what to make of either, only that it hurt, and that she’d never been able to shake the feeling that she was always late to the story—showing up after the damage was done, hoping there was still something to save.

“Dawn?” Myra said suddenly, voice so loud it startled her. “Do you think—” She stopped, tried again. “Does it matter, do you think, if the person you’re sorry to is alive or not?”

Dawn didn’t answer right away. She let the question breathe. “Yeah,” she said finally. “I think it matters to us. Maybe not to them. But it matters.”

Myra exhaled, a shaky sound. “I was hoping you’d say no,” she said, “so I wouldn’t have to deal with it.”

Dawn smiled, even though Myra couldn’t see it. “Sorry. Not that kind of story, I guess.”

They came to a stop at a patch where the stone gave way to sand. Dawn steadied Myra with both hands, bracing her. “This next part is tricky,” she said. “But we’re almost there, okay?”

Myra nodded, lips pressed tight. “Okay.”

They made it the last hundred yards in a slow, careful zigzag. By the time the hotel’s white walls came into view, Myra’s breathing had steadied, and she was almost walking on her own. Almost.

Dawn kept her hand on Myra’s elbow anyway. She knew the rules—never let go until the other person said so.

As they approached the doors, Myra stopped and turned her face toward Dawn, her blind eyes fixed on a point just above Dawn’s ear. “You know what I saw, when I heard Andy say her name?”

Dawn shook her head. “No. What?”

“I saw all the ways it could have been different,” Myra said. “I saw a world where Laura didn’t die, where Andy was happy, and none of us ever ended up here.” She shivered. “And I hated it. I wanted this world instead. Even with the pain.”

Dawn let the words land. She thought about what Myra had said, and how sometimes the thing you wanted most in the world was the thing you could never have, but you lived with it anyway.

She squeezed Myra’s hand, just once, and said, “I think Andy would pick this world, too.”

Myra smiled, a real one this time. “You think so?”

“Yeah,” Dawn said. “I really do.”

They finished the walk in silence, the cool air of the lobby wrapping around them like a balm. Myra’s trembling was almost gone, but Dawn kept hold of her arm, guiding her through the door and into the bright, echoing space inside.