Sam's Night (V), Part 1

Andy and Sam took the elevator back up to the Suite an hour or so after the end of the game, hands full of leftover muffins and the hot, kinetic energy of half a dozen nerds still arguing about whether “emotionally stabilizing an AI” counted as a boss battle. The ride was silent, the kind of good, heavy silence that meant both of them were thinking about the same thing but neither wanted to let it surface. Sam was the first to break, with a muttered, “If you try to assign me an emotional support drone, I’m shoving it out the airlock,” but Andy just grinned, already wondering if Hopeful Noodle would be waiting for him at the door.

The Suite door opened to a darkness so absolute it felt intentional. Andy paused, expecting a trap—maybe a confetti mine, maybe just Laura crouched behind the couch with a squirt gun, ready to blast him and then laugh herself breathless. He stepped inside, slow, and let his eyes adjust.

What he found instead was the opposite of a prank: the place had changed, in subtle ways he couldn’t name. The couch had a throw blanket, rumpled from recent use. Someone (not him) had stacked a row of snack wrappers on the coffee table, next to a half-emptied bottle of blue Gatorade and an empty glass, as if someone had meant to finish it but got distracted. The soft light over the kitchen island glowed with the warmth of a lived-in house. Even the faint, underlying scent—something like fabric softener and ozone—felt different, like a house that remembered people.

He stood there for a second, blinking. Then he saw the couch, and it hit him: there were two Lauras, sprawled side by side in the indented corner of the sectional, feet up on the coffee table, noses buried in matching battered copies of Calvin and Hobbes. One wore his faded UIC t-shirt—the one Andy kept in the bottom of his drawer for sentimental emergencies—and a pair of red pajama pants, also his, cinched at the waist by a hasty knot of drawstring. The other wore a pair of boxer shorts stolen from his underwear closet, and his UIC hoodie. Neither had brushed her hair. Both wore it loose, blue-black strands frizzing out like static. Laura looked, for the first time since the whole resurrection thing, less like twin gorgeous beauties and more like someone’s lazy Sunday come to life.

Both heads looked up at once. Both faces grinned. “Welcome home,” she chorused, perfectly in sync, and it knocked the wind out of him in a way that not even two Lauras should have been able to do.

He dropped his bag on the table and crossed to her, half-laughing, half-relieved. The right Laura got there first, vaulting over the arm of the couch and nearly taking him down with the momentum of her hug. The left Laura was a step behind, but then both bodies were wrapped around him, warm and solid and as real as the last night had promised. It was dizzying, and wonderful, and the only thing he could think to say was, “You stole my shirt.”

Laura (both) nuzzled into his chest. “You left it out. And also I wanted it.”

When she pulled back, both faces shone with that off-center, wild delight that had been her hallmark in the old days, before everything went bad. Andy felt a lump in his throat, but also the start of a laugh he couldn’t quite stop.

“You look—” he started, then shook his head, “—you look really happy.”

Laura beamed, right body pressing a cheek to his shoulder, left body stealing a handful of goldfish and popping them in her mouth. “I am,” she said, both voices this time. “I missed you.”

Sam, observing this from the kitchen, called out: “You saw him an hour ago. He’s not a flight risk, is he?”

Laura shrugged, but didn’t break the hug. “I’m just making sure,” she said. “Still hard to believe I live here now.”

The urge to say something cool or clever withered under the double **** of her smile. Instead, Andy kissed her—first the right, then the left, then both together, which was less logistically challenging than he’d expected but still an adventure. Both Lauras went a little glassy-eyed, then giggled, the left one’s hands climbing up to cup the back of his neck, the right one’s hand squeezing his ribs.

Sam rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. “Okay, okay, so the Consort actually lives here now. Is there an onboarding process, or do you just split the utilities?”

Laura finally broke the hug, but kept a hand on Andy’s arm, both sides. “Arabella said it’s official,” she explained, “I have a bedroom.” Laura, proud, pointed down the hall toward the formerly non-existing door. “There. I have a plaque and everything. ‘Consort’s Quarters’ in, like, fake-cursive.”

The moment Laura pointed toward her new bedroom, Andy saw the sparkle in both sets of blue eyes—the subtle pride, the hint of wonder that this was really, truly happening. For the first time since she’d come back, Laura seemed more like a person who belonged in the world, and less like some beautiful, impossible dream the universe would wake from if he looked too long.

Sam whistled, a low, appreciative note that was only partly a tease. “You get a whole bedroom, huh? Already moving up in the world.” She crossed to the door, peered inside, and let out a genuine, “Damn, that’s nice,” before returning to the kitchen to snag a soda from the fridge. “Andy, you know she’s already domesticated the place. There’s a little origami wolf on the pillow.”

Andy grinned. “I think that’s her way of marking territory. Beats peeing on the furniture.”

Laura groaned in stereo, burying her faces in her hands. “Oh my God. I forgot you’re still twelve sometimes.”

He shrugged. “I try to keep things consistent.”

Sam watched them, amusement and a trace of real affection on her face. “You two are going to be insufferable, you know that?”

“Yeah,” Andy admitted, not even a little sorry.

The elevator dinged again.

Andy looked up, expecting maybe a Mildred misdelivering pizza or the world’s most aggressively-timed amenities call, but when he walked up to the entrance and opened the elevator, the doors hissed open and Arabella stepped out, resplendent in a midnight blue suit with gold embroidery at the cuffs and an air of calculated mischief. She smiled, closed the distance in three slow, measured steps, and said, “Forgive the intrusion, but there’s a matter of protocol I ought to address before you all get too comfortable.”

Sam, who’d just sat down with a fistful of goldfish crackers, gave a mock salute. “Yes, Captain?”

Arabella’s gaze slid from Sam to Andy, then to Laura, and for the briefest instant something gentle, almost maternal, flickered in her eyes. “I’d hoped to catch you all together. Sam, as our newly-minted Harem Queen, there are changes to your privileges. A reward, as I mentioned during the meeting.” She let the word roll, as if tasting it, then continued: “You no longer need to share the Master’s bed during your night, if you do not wish. You may crash on the couch—though I’d advise against it, the frame is an ergonomic nightmare—or, with the Consort’s permission, use her Bedroom, should she be… otherwise occupied. There’s also an additional perk, but I think it’s best left for the surprise.”

Sam let out a long, slow whistle, turning to Andy. “Promotion with benefits. I’m not mad about it.”

Laura’s faces sparkled. “All hail the Queen?”

Sam shrugged, “Just means I get to decide what’s for dinner when you or Andy can’t. Also, I’m supposed to help him ‘anchor the harem bond’ if the two of you run off to have your honeymoon or something.”

The elevator’s chime was precise, almost theatrical. Andy, half-expecting more confetti or maybe just a stray bunny girl with a basket of muffins, opened the door and found Liesa there instead. She wore an apricot linen dress and that particular smile—wide, a little crooked, and so quietly delighted it could make anything feel like good news. Her hair was up in a hasty twist, wisps floating around her face, and her arms were already half-open, like she meant to hug whoever answered the call.

She took two steps into the suite, clocked Arabella and Laura both, and said, “I hope I am not interrupting?”

Laura, who was still holding Andy’s arm with both of her bodies, straightened and, for half a second, seemed to weigh whether this was a situation to greet with a handshake, a hug, or just to quietly evaporate. Andy gave her a reassuring squeeze.

“Not at all,” he said, and then Liesa swept him up in a hug, planting a kiss on his lips and then pulling back, hands still on his shoulders, just for a beat too long.

“You look rested,” she said, then pivoted to Sam, and the whole room watched the air change. Liesa’s eyes softened, her smile flickering to something shyer. “Hey,” she said, voice lower. “Hi.”

Sam grinned, got up from her stool, and, without hesitation, met Liesa in the middle for a hug that was slightly more collision than embrace. “What brings you up here?” Sam asked, letting go but only barely.

Liesa turned to Arabella. “She said there was news?”

Arabella, resuming her role as a ceremonial toastmaster, spread her hands. “I thought it only fair that you hear this in person, since it will affect you both. Liesa—congratulations on the afternoon’s developments. As a result of Sam’s promotion, henceforth, you and Sam will no longer rotate partners. You’ll share Room 69 together, for the duration of the competition.”

There was a second of stunned silence. Liesa blinked, then looked at Sam, as if she might be the punchline to a very elaborate prank.

“Wait, are you serious?” Sam said. “Like, that’s it? No more roulette wheel of roommates?”

Arabella inclined her head. “It’s quite serious, I assure you.”

Liesa’s hand drifted to Sam’s, fingers threading through with practiced ease. “We get to stay together?”

Sam looked at Andy, then back at Liesa, and for once, didn’t make a joke. “I’m really happy,” she said. “Best news I’ve gotten all week.”

Andy glanced over at Laura, both bodies. The right one was studying Liesa with open curiosity; the left was smiling, a little uncertain, as if she hadn’t yet decided whether to be nervous or excited.

“Congrats,” Andy said, genuine. “You two are adorable.”

Sam shot him a look, but then the emotion bubbled up and she gave Liesa another one-armed squeeze, pulling her in.

Arabella observed this with a warm, almost benevolent pride. “I took the liberty of asking Liesa up so you could share the moment together,” she said. “A small gesture, but a meaningful one.”

Sam, processing, just shook her head. "Man, what a day. We went from 'awkward bunch of weirdos' to 'married couple suite' in like, eight hours."

There was a beat, and then Liesa, perfectly innocent, added: "Is that not how it goes? After you propose with a beautiful blue glass ring in a girl’s Atelier, full of paintings?" She poked Sam's ribs, but with affection.

Laura's eyes went wide, her right body turning fully to face them both. "Wait. Are you...?"

Sam, caught, laughed. "It wasn't planned! I just saw her standing there in the Atelier of Palimpsests and thought—" She turned to Liesa, mock-annoyed. "You really want to tell the story right now?"

Liesa shrugged, not at all shy. "If you want, I can wait until later. But I think it is sweet."

Laura looked at Andy. “Did you know?”

Andy grinned sheepishly. “Sam told me just before the game. I would have told you, but there wasn’t time.” Laura stuck out her tongues at Andy, then looked at Sam, then back at Liesa, as if triangulating a new axis of reality. "I didn't know you two were together."

"We're not, like, married yet," Sam clarified, "but, uh, yeah. We kind of are engaged."

Liesa beamed, twisting the blue glass ring on her finger. "She got on one knee," she confided, to no one in particular.

Andy nearly choked on his laughter. "So that's how you earned all those points to get past one hundred?"

Sam groaned, but couldn't stop smiling. "A hundred and five VP, to be exact. Apparently genuine emotion is worth more than strategy." She gave Andy a meaningful glance, like, don't you dare make this weird, but he wouldn't have anyway.

Laura was still watching, both faces registering new information at slightly different speeds. “That’s… really cool,” she said, almost shy. “I hope you’ll be happy.”

Sam turned, more serious. “Laura, you know you’re—uh, welcome here, right? Like, the whole point is to make this work for everyone.”

Laura, who hadn’t let go of Andy, nodded. “I know. It’s just, I haven’t really spent much time with you guys. But… I want to try.”

Andy felt the urge to gather everyone up and do some kind of sitcom group hug, but before he could, Liesa reached for Laura and drew her in. Laura stiffened, but only for a moment, and then let herself be embraced, both bodies at once. It was awkward and wonderful, the kind of hug that ends with at least two people giggling and one person not knowing what to do with her hands.

Arabella clapped, very quietly, as if to herself. “There is nothing quite so rewarding as seeing a plan come together,” she mused.

Andy smiled at Liesa. “Will you have dinner with us tonight? Maybe just us four?”

Liesa nodded, smiling. “It will be perfect.”

Andy hesitated, then turned to Arabella. “What about you? Would you like to join?”

Arabella seemed genuinely taken aback, but recovered quickly and offered a maternal smile. “Thank you, Andy, but not tonight. I think tonight is best spent with the women you have here.”

Sam, ever the logistics officer, piped in. “Quick question for the rulebook: if Liesa is here, does she have to sleep in Andy’s bed tonight, or can we just hang out as a couple in Laura’s room?”

Arabella’s eyes danced. “You are all adults. The arrangement is up to you. Far be it from me to tell the Master, the Consort and a Harem Queen where to sleep.” She paused, letting the implications land.

Sam looked at Laura, then at Andy, then at Liesa. “So, technically, if nothing’s going to happen between Andy and me tonight, and Laura’s not territorial, maybe she could loan us her room for a night? I’ll swap her my spot in Andy’s bed. That’s a fair trade, right?”

Laura, who clearly had not anticipated this scenario, blinked. Both her faces went beet red. “I mean… if that’s okay with everyone?”

Andy laughed, genuine. “If you’re fine with it, I’m fine with it.”

Arabella, the conductor, lifted her glass. “Then it’s settled. Congratulations, all of you.” She gave Laura a small, sincere nod, as if to say, You’re doing great, and then, “I’ll see myself out.”

The door closed softly behind her, and the suite fell into an easy, electric quiet—the kind that meant everyone knew this was, in fact, the good stuff.

Andy looked at the three women, all radiating their particular flavors of affection and uncertainty, smiled. The evening was turning to be a lot more animated than he had anticipated.

Liesa, always the gentle catalyst, broke the silence. “Shall we make dinner? I brought cheese. And, um, something for dessert.”

Sam, shaking off the last vestiges of incredulity, said, “Yes. Please. Let’s do that.”

Laura, still blushing, managed a “Yeah,” and Sam, already moving to the kitchen, shot her a smile. “Come on,” she said, “I’ll teach you how to make the vinaigrette.”

By the time the four of them made it to the kitchen, Liesa was already eyeing the fridge, like she intended to audit its entire contents. The suite’s kitchen was a vast improvement over anything Andy had ever owned—a long marble island, enormous fridge, gas range that could char a steak in thirty seconds flat. On the counter, a neat array of vegetables, cheeses, and a half-thawed slab of salmon waited like a still life.

“Okay,” Andy said, “what are we making?”

Liesa, who had brought the cheese and something in a mysterious blue bag, shrugged. “Anything you want. I am good at cleaning up.”

Sam shook her head, already rolling up her sleeves. “Division of labor. Andy, you’re on fish. Laura, you’re with me on salad.”

Laura, both bodies standing at polite attention, looked at Andy for confirmation, then nodded, her left face smiling with a hint of nervousness. “I’ve never made fancy salad,” she said, almost apologetic.

Sam grinned. “Neither have I, but I once dated a girl who ran a Greek bakery. You learn things.” She guided Laura to the chopping board, handed her a knife, and then, to Liesa, said: “Can you set the table? Make it pretty with your European taste.”

Liesa smiled, effortless. “It will be the prettiest table you have ever seen.”

Andy, unable to resist, called after her: “No pressure.”

He watched Sam line up the tomatoes, cucumbers, and bell peppers with drill-sergeant precision. “Let me guess,” he said, “you’re going to tell us there’s a right way and a wrong way to cut a cucumber.”

Sam didn’t even glance up. “The wrong way is slicing your thumb off. The right way is however you like, so long as you’re not a monster.” She demonstrated, quick and sure, then handed the knife to Laura. Laura’s right body took it, her left hand steadying the cucumber. She made the first slice, hesitated, then continued, slower than Sam but more precise. Her other body stood near, watching, but deliberately not mirroring. Andy felt a weird sense of pride, watching her try to get better at using the two bodies separately.

“Do you get tired if you don’t let your two bodies sync?” Sam asked, genuinely curious.

Laura considered. “Sort of. It’s like… if you ever played two-player games by yourself? That feeling.”

Sam snorted. “I get it. Old Nintendo, Mario and Luigi, two controllers.”

“Exactly,” Laura said, and she flashed stereo grins. “If you mess up, it’s only your fault.”

Andy smiled, then got to work on the fish. He drizzled lemon, olive oil, and a little salt, the familiar motions calming in their simplicity. He glanced over and caught Liesa folding napkins into complex knot shapes, and setting out glasses with a deliberate, homey order. Sam, meanwhile, had moved to the vinaigrette. “Watch this,” she said, and with one hand whisked oil and vinegar together in a mug while the other pulled out a jar of dried oregano. “The trick is to go slow, let it emulsify.” She tilted the mug for Laura to see. “When it looks like this, you’re golden.”

One of Laura’s bodies leaned in for a closer look. The other continued chopping, never missing a beat. “I think I remember this from a cooking show,” she said. “The chef made everyone taste the salad, after.”

Sam laughed. “Maybe Arabella would make tomorrow’s Challenge a cooking show. Everyone has to serve Andy naked.”

Liesa, from the table, called: “I approve. It would be more efficient.”

Andy, slicing lemon rounds, shook his head. “Liesa, you’re supposed to be setting the table, not inciting chaos.”

She shrugged, but the look on her face said: same thing, really. The kitchen filled with the sounds of chopping, sizzling, and the low, happy noise of people learning how to coexist. Andy rubbed the salmon, then slid the fillets into a hot pan, the skin searing with a hiss. He was aware, distantly, of Laura watching him, both faces quietly fascinated by the process.

“Last time Sam and I cooked together,” he said, “she turned the pasta into angry jelly.”

"It was a statement," Sam shot back, slicing tomatoes with near-military precision. "Performance art. You were supposed to deconstruct it with your mouth."

"Deconstruction is a strong word," Andy said. "It nearly deconstructed my will to live."

Laura giggled in stereo. The left one was closer to Sam, watching the way she maneuvered the chef's knife, the other stood next to Andy and looked at the fish, like it might launch an escape attempt if she blinked. Liesa, who had somehow found a set of linen napkins and was folding them into elaborate swans, glanced over her shoulder. "In Belgium, if the pasta is not angry, it is not loved."

Sam grinned, pleased, and set the tomatoes in a neat pile. "See? She gets it."

Laura's right hand hovered uncertainly above a bell pepper. Sam, seeing the hesitation, stepped in. "Here," she said, guiding Laura's hand. "Pinch at the top, then rock the knife. Don't **** it, let gravity do the work. Unless you want it to look like a **** scene."

Laura, both heads bent, studied Sam's technique. The left Laura copied the motion, while the right Laura asked, "Why are we making so much salad? There's only four of us." She paused. “Well, five, counting two of me.”

"Because Andy also eats for two," Sam said, then elbowed him. "And because we're making enough to share with Liesa for tomorrow's lunch, unless you're planning to fight her for it."

Andy made a show of flexing, which made Liesa laugh, then added, "If there are leftovers, they’ll vanish overnight. Guaranteed."

Sam moved down the line, grabbing a cucumber, and glanced up at Laura. "Can I ask you something? For real?"

Laura's bodies straightened. "Sure?"

"What's it like? Being back, I mean. For us, it's like we blinked and here you are in the flesh, after hearing so much about you, but for you...?"

Laura considered. The silence stretched for two or three careful slices of cucumber. "It's weird," she said finally, both voices quiet but certain. "It's like... I remember everything from before, and then nothing. And now, I'm here, in a world where everyone else changed, but I'm still... me. But also, not."

Sam nodded, and for the first time Andy saw her default humor drop a notch. "That’s a lot."

Laura smiled. "It's better than the alternative."

"Do you remember what happened? Before... you know." Sam's voice was gentle, the kind reserved for breaking bad news or teaching someone to tie a tie for the first time.

Laura shook both heads, a little too hard. "Not really. But I have fragments of meeting Emi in the library, just before being brought back. Sometimes I think I see something, but I’m not sure if it’s real or just wishful thinking."

Sam nodded, not pushing. Instead, she went back to the salad, then changed tack. "What about the whole two bodies thing? Is it as fun as it looks?"

Liesa, who had moved on to arranging the plates, glanced over with curiosity.

Laura blushed, both faces at once. "Sometimes? It's complicated. If I do something in one body, the other one feels it too. If I stub my toe, both the same feet hurt. If I eat something, both mouths taste it. I can get out of sync for a little while, but it’s a lot less exhausting to be in sync."

Sam brightened. "You should do ventriloquism. Make Andy your puppet."

Andy pretended to pout, but Laura smiled, clearly liking the idea.

Liesa, arms full of napkins, tiptoed over and began placing them at the table with quiet grace. "You seem more relaxed today," she said to Laura, softly. "The first time I saw you, you looked as if you would fall apart if someone touched you."

Laura glanced at Andy and turned pink. "I’ve had a couple of really good days," she said, both voices in perfect unison.

Sam finished the last of the salad prep and passed the bowl to Laura. “Here. Mix this. The trick is to toss it like this.” She demonstrated. “You feel the texture better.”

Laura, learning, did as instructed, and seemed proud when nothing ended up on the floor.

Andy, meanwhile, had the salmon in the pan, skin-side down, and was narrating the steps under his breath. "Medium heat, olive oil first, then lemon. You want the skin crispy but not burned." He looked up at Sam, expecting a sriracha sneak attack, and saw her slowly reach for the bottle.

"Don't you dare," Andy warned.

Sam stopped, but Liesa giggled, then called, "Maybe we should let the Consort decide. This is her dinner, after all."

Both Lauras turned to Andy, eyes alight. "Consort says no. Also, I’m two people, so I think my vote should count for two."

Andy laughed. "On matters of sriracha, I agree."

Sam grinned, and released the bottle.

Liesa brought over a pitcher of water and set it in the middle of the table. "Are we missing anything?"

"Wine," Sam said, opening the fridge and grabbing a bottle.

Andy felt the rhythm of the kitchen settle into something domestic and right. He watched Laura’s hands, careful and deliberate, and the way Liesa seemed to float around the table, putting everything in order. He watched Sam’s confidence in the kitchen, the subtle way she always checked to make sure everyone was keeping up, and felt something new: a sense of being taken care of, instead of just taking care.

He plated the salmon, careful to get the skin just crispy enough to make Sam’s "angry jelly" joke impossible. Laura set the salad, perfectly mixed, and Liesa dimmed the lights over the table so everything glowed warm.

"Should we sit?" Liesa asked.

Andy nodded, then made a little show of pulling out Laura’s chair (both of them, at once, which was its own challenge), then sat next to her. Sam did the same for Liesa, then plopped herself down at the end, poured wine with the flourish of someone who had practiced the move, and then raised her glass.

"To new beginnings," Sam said, looking at Laura.

"To staying together," Liesa added, eyes on Sam.

"To dinner that doesn’t threaten my existence," Andy said.

Laura raised her seltzer glasses, shy. "To all of that," she said, and her voice sounded more like hope than anything Andy had heard from her since her return.

They ate in a harmony that was new, but not uncomfortable. Sam made jokes, Liesa asked questions, Andy fielded stories about college and the old days, and Laura, for once, just listened, both bodies leaning in at times, sometimes mirroring, sometimes not.

At some point, Sam asked, "So how was Warrenville? Did it… help?"

Laura nodded, mouth full of salmon, then chewed quickly. "It did," she said, after swallowing. "I met Andy’s parents again. I thought it would be awkward, but it was nice. Like coming home. I think… I think it helped me remember who I was supposed to be."

Andy felt the lump in his throat return, but in a good way. The rest of the meal passed in a comfortable, blooming warmth—something more than just the overhead lights or the bottle of wine making its rounds.

Laura ate in sync, both bodies making careful, almost reverent work of the salmon. At first, Andy thought it was just her still learning to coordinate two forks at once, but after a few minutes he realized she was tasting it. Not just the flavor, but the texture, the salt, the citrus—each bite seemed to surprise her anew. One of her bodies would pause after a bite, the other would chase it with a drink of water, like she was checking if the sensation held up from both sides. He watched her for a while, caught between delight and disbelief, until she noticed and blushed, then shot him a look: Don’t make a big deal about it.

He didn’t, but Sam did. “You like it?” she asked, maybe a little too loudly.

Laura nodded, finished chewing, and said, “It’s amazing. I never had real salmon before. I think I only ever had fish sticks and that was… not the same thing.” She shook her head, smiled in stereo. “I don’t know if it’s the food, the people, or the transformation that makes both of my bodies feel what the other feels. But everything tastes so much… brighter.”

Sam grinned, genuine. “Wait until dessert. Liesa made a thing—well, it’s not cake, but it’s something.”

Liesa, who had been savoring every bite in a way Andy remembered from their college days, ducked her head, modest. “Is just a tart,” she said. “But I used the little lemons from the garden, the weird ones. You will see.”

Laura beamed at her. “I love lemon.”

Andy noticed, for the first time, that the table actually looked like a family dinner—five plates, two sets of glasses for Laura, water pitcher and wine bottle and the salad bowl now nearly empty. There was none of the weird edge that used to haunt him at these events, the sense of borrowed time or that someone would say the wrong thing and the whole thing would collapse. Tonight, he just felt… lucky.

Sam, never one to let a moment go un-teased, elbowed Andy. “Did you ever tell Laura about the time you almost burned down the chemistry building?”

Andy groaned. “Not my fault. The supervisor said the procedure was safe.”

Sam grinned. “Story goes, he was making butanoic acid and got distracted by the TA’s—”

“—by an experiment in the next room,” Andy interrupted, but he was already turning pink. “Anyway, I followed protocol. The flame got, like, two feet high, and then the hood shorted out, and it melted the paint off the fume hood. Not a big deal.”

Sam shook her head, laughing softly. “It smelled like **** and parmesan cheese for three days.”

Laura, delighted, set down her fork and said, “Was that before or after you switched to engineering?”

Andy tried to remember, but Sam was faster. “That was his first week. After that, he became the poster child for interdisciplinary studies.”

Liesa, eyes twinkling, added, “He is lucky he is cute. Some of the girls in the dorm, they made a fan club for the ‘Guy Who Blew Up the Lab.’ I was in it.” She winked at Andy, who made a face but couldn’t help smiling.

Laura’s faces went thoughtful, both of them, and she said, “I didn’t know that part.” There was a small note of wonder, like she’d just discovered a secret biography of her favorite author.

Sam, sensing an opening, pivoted. “Did Andy ever tell you about the Talent Show?”

He looked at her, horror dawning. “Don’t—”

But Liesa was already in on it. “He did a dance. In gold shorts.”

Andy wanted to die. “I did not do a dance. I was, like, **** onto the stage by my RA and I sang. For thirty seconds.”

Sam, grinning like a devil, said, “He moonwalked. In gold shorts. There are pictures.”

Laura looked at Andy, the two faces merging into one unstoppable **** of amusement. “You never told me about this.”

He muttered, “It didn’t come up.”

“Was he any good?” Laura asked Liesa and Sam.

Sam shrugged, but she was smiling. “The moonwalk was serviceable. But he actually has a really good voice. Never lets anyone hear it, though.”

Andy tried to glare at her, but he could feel the blush all the way up to his ears. “Thanks for that.”

Laura, instead of making fun, just reached over with both left hands, and squeezed his arm. “I like hearing you sing,” she said, simple as a wish.

He felt the lump again, but this time it was more like hope than terror.

Dinner wound down with everyone picking at the last scraps, Liesa getting up to pull her lemon tart from the fridge, Laura clearing plates with a quick, silent efficiency that would have made his mother proud. Andy watched as Sam helped, lining up dishes by the sink, and felt the weight of something shift—not just the newness of Laura being here, in this Suite, but the way Sam looked at her now.

They brought dessert to the living room, where Sam had already set up the board for Ticket to Ride, one of the few games in the suite that was both fun and non-lethal. Laura looked at it with mild suspicion. “Is this a math thing?” she asked.

Sam grinned. “Not at all. Just trains, and making the longest routes. You’ll be great at it.”

Laura gave a pout of disappointment, and Andy remembered she was the only person in middle school who actually enjoyed a board game the more math it had in it. Even so she sat, both bodies folding down onto the floor in perfect sync, and Andy realized there was zero hesitation. Until yesterday, Laura would have hovered, anxious about rules or messing up the game for others. This one just accepted the deal and rolled with it. It made him want to reach across and just… hold her, both of her, until the world caught up.

Sam dealt the cards, explained the rules in a way that was half tutorial and half standup set, and after two rounds, Laura was playing like she’d been born to it. She was, in fact, terrifyingly good: by the end of the first game, she had nearly cut Andy off at Seattle, and Sam had to physically restrain Liesa from giving her strategic hints.

“This is so much better than Monopoly,” Laura said, eyes shining. “Nobody’s trying to **** each other. Well, except you,” she added, nodding at Sam, who was plotting a double-cross through Duluth.

“I believe in friendly competition,” Sam replied, without a trace of irony.

Liesa, who had ended up last by a hilarious margin, fake-pouted and slumped back into the couch. “Always, I am the caboose,” she declared. “Next game, I am playing to win.”

Andy shot her a look. “Weren’t you trying to connect Brussels to Istanbul in the Europe version?”

She shrugged, unbothered. “I like the names. They sound romantic.”

Laura, gleeful in her victory, said, “I’m just happy I got to San Francisco.”

They played another round, then a third, the games growing rowdier as the wine bottle got lower. Laura had tea for the first two, but on the third, she hesitated, then asked Andy, “Can I try the wine?”

He nodded, poured her a splash, and watched as she tasted it—first with a frown, then a surprised smile. “It’s… weird. Good weird.” She set the glass down, but didn’t push it away.

Andy remembered, for a flicker, how Laura’s father used to sneak her **** when she was a kid—just enough to get her sleepy, just enough to stop the noise. He remembered the haunted way she’d describe it, back when she was still alive. The look in her eyes now—curious, in control, wanting to understand the experience instead of just being numbed by it—was everything he’d hoped for.

After the last game, Sam flopped on the couch and said, “I’m officially calling tonight a success. We make a pretty good team.”

Laura smiled, both bodies curling up into the same chair, like she’d finally figured out how to occupy the same space without fighting herself. “Thank you,” she said. “I know it’s weird, but… I feel like I finally belong.”

Sam looked at her, and for the first time since the resurrection, Andy saw his best friend look at Laura with real, unguarded affection. “It’s not weird. It’s right.”

Liesa, ever the sentimental one, reached over and hugged Laura. “You are the best at trains,” she said, which somehow felt like the highest possible compliment.

Andy, quietly overwhelmed, just watched it all happen. At some point, he felt Laura’s hand find his under the table—warm, soft, real—and he squeezed it, not caring which body she used.

They spent the next hour telling stories. Laura talked about her and Andy's childhood, all the dumb schemes and time capsules. "Remember that last one?" Andy asked suddenly. "The one with the note in that cipher I could never crack?" Laura's faces both flushed pink. "I wondered if you'd found that." Andy leaned forward. "What did it say?" Laura’s heads avoided his eyes. “Just... 'I'll always be your person.'“ She paused. “Well, a little more than that, I guess. Something about how much I loved you and wanted you to notice it, and wanted to marry you and spend the rest of my life with you.” She blushed furiously. “You know. I was thirteen!”

Sam and Liesa traded glances, stifling laughter, then launched into stories of Andy from college—how he once spent a month learning Flemish to impress Liesa, or how he had a strict schedule for eating every single item on the cafeteria menu just once. "He kept a spreadsheet," Sam said. "It was impressive. And disturbing."

Liesa nodded, then added, “Is how I first noticed him. He was always so organized, but then when you talked to him, he was very… not organized. I liked that about him.”

Andy, feeling attacked but also flattered, said, “You never told me that.”

She winked. “Some things you have to save for later.”

They finished the tart, cleaned up, and migrated back to the couch, where for a while, nobody felt like talking. The night pressed soft and quiet against the windows. Andy looked around the room—at Laura, both of her, curled up in a blanket; at Sam and Liesa, their hands entwined; at the leftovers on the table, the memory of laughter still hanging in the air—and realized that this was it. This was home.

The suite grew quieter as the night wore on. Liesa and Sam, having drifted from the wine-soft camaraderie of the living room, claimed the Consort’s Bedroom with a “just for tonight” as their parting words. Laura had smiled, waved them off, and then looked at Andy with both heads cocked, as if to say: I’m not tired yet.

He wasn’t either. The exhaustion that usually came after a day like this had been replaced by a strange, humming restlessness. He could feel it in the way Laura’s hands jittered at her sides, in the way his own breath kept catching for no reason at all.

They wandered into Andy’s bedroom. Katherine stood inside her frame, as always, but there was a new energy in the canvas: tonight, her green eyes were wide and her hair seemed to glow in the low light, pooling like black silk around her feet. She looked more alive than ever.

Laura, without hesitation, said, “Hi, Katherine,” as if greeting a neighbor at the mailbox. Both of her bodies stepped up to the painting, and Andy followed, always a little in awe of how completely Laura had accepted this oddity.

Katherine responded with a delighted, two-handed wave, then covered her mouth with both hands in a gesture of giggled surprise.

Andy said, “She likes you,” and Laura snorted. “She’s cute,” she replied, and both faces smiled at the painting.

Katherine, grinning, flexed one foot forward, then curtsied with a precision and grace that looked both practiced and deeply sincere. She mimed writing something in the air, then made a heart with her hands, then pointed at Andy and Laura.

Laura’s faces both went soft. “What’s she trying to say?”

Andy hesitated. “I think… she’s saying she’s happy for us.”

Katherine nodded, then pantomimed applause, but not in a sarcastic way. It was warm, open, unguarded.

Laura giggled. “She’s like a fairy godmother.”

Katherine blushed at that, and tilted her head bashfully. The motion made her hair swing, and for a moment, she looked less like a painting and more like a bashful actress caught offstage.

Andy glanced at Laura, who was watching him, and realized it was his turn to explain. “There’s something you should know about Katherine,” he said, voice low.

Laura’s left head tilted, curious. “What’s that?”

Andy felt the ridiculousness of the moment, but pushed ahead. “She has a transformation. She can, uh… feel pleasure, if she’s watching. But only if the people she’s watching know she’s watching.” He paused. “Arabella made sure I knew about it.”

Laura’s right body blinked, then both faces broke into matching, slightly evil grins. “So she’s a voyeur ghost?”

Andy laughed, nerves shaking loose. “Kind of, yeah.”

Katherine, hearing this, rolled her eyes with theatrical exaggeration, then mimed zipping her lips shut. The effect was somewhere between mortified and deeply entertained.

Laura stepped closer, until her nose was nearly touching the canvas. “Well, if she’s going to live here, she might as well get a show now and then,” she said, both voices in perfect sync.

Andy, surprised at how unbothered he was by this, just shrugged. “She more than deserves it. She’s been nothing but kind to me. Even before you came back, she… helped.” He didn’t say more, but Laura seemed to understand.

Katherine reached out and pressed her palm to the inside of the canvas, fingers splayed wide. Laura, without hesitation, pressed her own hand to the same spot. There was a beat, an echo, as if something had been completed.

They were so caught up in the moment that neither noticed the bedroom door open, or the quiet footsteps behind them.

Sam’s voice came out of nowhere, sharp and startled: “What the fuck.”

Andy jumped. Laura’s right head spun around. Sam, in pajamas and with bedhead already starting, stood frozen in the doorway, clutching a pillow like it was a shield.

She stared at the painting, then at Andy, then back to the painting. “It’s moving,” Sam whispered, like she wasn’t sure if she’d had too much wine or not enough.

Katherine, caught mid-gesture, froze. Then, with the world’s most sheepish look, she slowly raised a hand and waved at Sam, fingers fluttering.

Sam blinked, then rubbed her eyes. “Am I hallucinating?” She looked at Andy for confirmation.

He grinned. “Nope. She’s real.”

Sam, completely at a loss for once, stared at Katherine for a good ten seconds. "She's naked," she finally said, her cheeks flushing as she remembered asking Andy if she could "borrow" the painting, the first round, for "research." Katherine's knowing smile made Sam's ears burn hot. "Oh God, you heard me say that, didn't you?"

Katherine nodded, perfectly deadpan.

Sam's eyes went wide. "Holy shit."

Laura turned to Sam and said, in stereo, “This is Katherine. She’s part of the harem, but she lives in the painting. She’s really nice, you’ll like her.”

Sam, still clutching the pillow, managed, “Hi?” and gave a tentative little wave.

Katherine smiled, then did a shy little bow.

Andy, amused, said, “She can hear everything, but can’t talk. Only gestures.” He turned to the painting. “Katherine, this is Sam. My best friend, and now one of two Harem Queens.”

Katherine’s face lit up, and she did an exaggerated, very regal curtsy. Sam, trying not to laugh, bowed back.

At that exact moment, Liesa appeared behind Sam, drawn by the commotion. “What is—” She stopped, staring at the painting.

Liesa's jaw actually dropped. For a solid three seconds she just stood there, as if waiting for the trick to reveal itself, but when the painting’s green eyes followed her, and the bashful smile on its subject’s face shifted in real time, the European cool completely vaporized. “Oh—she is not only beautiful, but alive?” Liesa breathed, her accent ramping up by the syllable. She stepped closer, transfixed, and studied the canvas with all the reverence of a pilgrim at Lourdes.

“Yeah,” Andy said, unable to keep the pride out of his voice. “She’s an eliminated Contestant. She’s been here since the first night.”

Katherine, for her part, looked ready to die of embarrassment. She gave Liesa a little wave, then, when Liesa waved back, covered her face in her hands like a kid hiding from a magician. Andy realized, with a bolt of affection, that this was the first time she had an audience who knew she was more than just decor.

Liesa, still inches from the frame, whispered, “What is her name?”

Andy said, “Katherine. She can’t talk, but she understands everything.”

The Belgian woman, having recovered from the initial shock, now peered at the painting like she was trying to solve it. “She’s really good,” Laura said. “She's beautiful.”

Katherine’s hands, still pressed to her mouth, fluttered. She did a quick bow in acknowledgment, then, perhaps emboldened, mimed painting with invisible brushes, then pointed at herself, then at Liesa. It took Andy a second to realize she was trying to communicate artist-to-artist.

“She’s saying she likes your art,” Andy said. “I showed her the sketch you gave me, day of the Fourth Challenge.”

Liesa looked thunderstruck. “I want to draw her,” she said, not to anyone in particular. Then, catching herself, she straightened and turned to Sam, who was still clutching the pillow like a lifeline. “You are not scared?”

Sam, who’d taken the longest to recover, shook her head. “I mean, I should be, right? Like, this is literally a haunted painting, but it’s…” She hesitated, and then just let it out: “It’s kind of beautiful. Sorry for being a jerk earlier,” she added, to Katherine, who nodded back with an exaggerated “it’s fine” wave.

The four of them (well, five, counting both Lauras) stood there in a circle, no one quite sure what to say next.

“So she’s just… here? Forever?” Liesa said, her voice softer than Andy had ever heard it.

Katherine shrugged, as if to say, What can you do? She then pantomimed pulling on a rope, then, with a sly smile, pointed at Andy and made a “muscle man” flex, followed by a little heart shape with her hands.

Andy felt his face flush. “She says she’s rooting for us. For me. I guess that’s her way of being part of the team. But no, she’s coming back with us, when we go. I added her to the harem so she would be part of us.”

Sam, for once, didn’t have a punchline. She just looked at Katherine, then at Andy, and then said, “That’s… actually really sweet.”

Liesa glanced at Laura, then at Andy, and said, “If she is part of the harem, why do you not bring her to meet the others? Why only keep her here?”

Katherine’s face clouded. She shrank back a half-inch, as if even the thought of being on display for the others was too much. She shook her head, hard.

The room froze. Andy saw it in Liesa’s posture, the sudden stiffness in her arms, in Laura’s two bodies both going rigid at once, in Sam’s nervous tucking of the pillow tighter against her chest. Even the air felt like it had stopped, as if waiting for someone to say the first and therefore most important thing.

Laura broke the silence. “Why not?” she asked, both voices together.

The painting didn’t move at first. Then Katherine exhaled—a visible softening of her chest and shoulders, a flex of her thighs—and looked at Andy, then at Laura, then at the other two. She put her hand to her heart and, in a small gesture, shrugged.

Andy said, “She’s not sure she’s… wanted. Or that she can be anything more than decoration.” He realized, as he spoke, that this was the first time in weeks he’d ever heard a doubt from her.

Liesa stepped forward, the kind of cautious reverence she reserved for art that might break if you breathed too hard. “I do not understand,” she said, softly. “You are a person. You see, you listen, you feel, yes?”

Katherine hesitated, then nodded.

“Then,” Liesa said, as if it was the simplest thing in the world, “you belong.”

Andy looked at Katherine meaningfully. “Do you see?” He chided her affectionately, “How much more proof do you need that everyone would love you?”

Katherine’s eyes were shiny, and she seemed caught by surprise by Andy’s assertion. “Katherine,” Andy continued, relentlessly, “this makes five people, beside me, who know about you now. And I know Emi mentioned you to Norah after the Museum, so it’s only a matter of time before Norah knows, too. That’s half the harem. I think it’s time.”

Sam, who’d been uncharacteristically silent, finally said, “I mean, it’s not the weirdest thing in the house.” She did not hesitate. She stepped forward, knuckles out, and tapped the lower left corner of the canvas. Katherine’s hand, in the painting, landed perfectly against Sam’s, knuckle to knuckle, skin to oil on canvas.

The moment lingered. Then Sam said, “See? Not even the top-ten weirdest thing I’ve ever done.”

Katherine gave her a faint smile, then looked at Andy, Laura, Liesa, Sam, and back at Andy. And then, to Andy’s absolute surprise, considering her stubbornness, she gave a tiny nod. But then she pointed at herself, then at the painting, and shook her head, hard. She mimed walking in place, then hitting a wall, palms flat against invisible glass. Her hands drew a square in the air, then she pointed at herself again.

“She’s saying she can’t leave the painting,” Andy translated. “Not even for a second. If we brought her anywhere, we’d have to carry the whole frame.” He tried to make it sound less sad than it was. “So, we’ll just bring the frame. Treat it like a family portrait. You get to hang out wherever you want.”

Katherine looked up, surprised, then broke into a bashful, blushing laugh. She pointed at Andy, then at herself, then mimed giving a fist bump.

Andy watched Laura, who was silent now, her two faces unreadable. He recognized the look—the gears grinding, the old impulse to protect and fix, held in check by something new and fragile.

He went to her, both of her, and put a hand on her arm. “You okay?” he asked.

Laura’s right head nodded. The left looked at him, then at Katherine, then back. “It just makes me sad,” she said. “She’s here, but she can’t ever touch or be touched. That’s not fair.”

Katherine, hearing this, pressed her palm to the glass again, then, without shame, traced a line down her own body, from her breast to her thigh, then looked at Andy with a fond, mock-exasperated roll of her eyes. She winked, then flexed both biceps in a silly, over-the-top show of strength.

“She’s tough,” Andy said, half-laughing, half-choked up. “And she gets it.” He paused. “I’ll get her out. I promised her.”

Liesa, always the problem-solver, brightened. “Tomorrow, we will bring you to brunch. And you can be at the table, not just on the wall.”

Sam nodded. “If anyone’s weird about it, we can claim it’s performance art.”

Andy nodded at Katherine, who returned the nod with a tiny, uncertain nod of her own, as if wondering what she had gotten herself into.