One More Truth

VP and BP Standings
Claire - 141 VP - 3100 BP - 2 Achievs
Erin - 134 VP - 8100 BP - 3 Achievs
Sam - 125 VP - 5900 BP - 3 Achievs
Myra - 121 VP - 4000 BP - 3 Achievs
Emi - 113 VP - 11250 BP - 3 Achievs
Chloe - 106 VP - 8650 BP - 2 Achievs
Emily - 106 VP - 7600 BP - 3 Achievs (2 used)
Liesa - 104 VP - 4400 BP - 3 Achievs
Norah - 103 VP - 0 BP - 3 Achievs
Marissa - 90 VP - 7000 BP - 3 Achievs
Dawn - 78 VP - 9000 BP - 3 Achievs
Riley - 77 VP - 8800 BP - 3 Achievs
Laura - 7950 BP - 2 Achievs

Andy came awake first. He was on his back, head sunk deep in the pillows, the comforter folded low across his bare chest. To his right, one of Laura’s bodies was curled into him, arm slung over his stomach, breathing slow and even. The other Laura slept with her head on the first one’s shoulder, hand gently tangled in the hem of the sheet. On his other side, Myra’s body formed a parenthesis to the three of them—her back was turned, tails draped wide and heavy across the expanse of the bed, their weight holding everything in place. One of the tails brushed his ankle; it was so soft that for a moment Andy mistook it for a blanket.

The room was bright enough to see by, though the curtains were drawn. The clock on the nightstand said 7:32. Beyond the doors to the suite, the world was quiet, no one yet up and about. He lay there a while, letting the stillness of the morning settle over him.

After a few minutes, both of Laura began to stir, simultaneously. The one on his right inhaled sharply and tucked her chin, the motion sending her hair in a slow wave across Andy’s chest; the other Laura pressed her palm flat, pushing herself upright with a sound like a yawn stretched into a sigh.

On the far side of the bed, Myra didn’t move at all. Only her ears twitched, the right one flicking upward to catch the shift in the room. When Andy turned his head, he saw that her eyes were open, the gaze unfocused, directed slightly above the bed’s edge.

He let the silence last, savoring it.

Laura’s two bodies sat up together, the synchronization so complete it was eerie. She glanced at Andy, and then at Myra, as if waiting for someone to call the first meeting to order.

It was Myra who spoke, voice still husky from sleep. “The room feels different this morning,” she said, her words rolling out slow. She lifted her head, ears rotating to orient on Andy’s voice. “Lighter, somehow. Did you notice?”

Laura’s two faces looked at her. “What do you mean?” she said in perfect unison.

Myra propped herself up on one elbow, tails shifting as a brace behind her. “I mean, whatever happened last night—it left something in the air.” She let the sentence run, then added, “It feels like the way a room does after a really good party, or after someone got the news they needed to hear. Warm, and… settled.”

Andy smiled. “You can read that?”

Myra nodded, her eyes not quite tracking him but the movement precise. “It’s not like reading words, or seeing color. It’s more like…” She trailed off, searching for the right phrase.

Laura picked it up. “What does it look like to you?” She tilted her heads, curious.

Myra considered. “It’s not physical color, not like a painting or a rainbow. I see outlines, motion, density—like the way wind makes a shape out of a field of grass. The warmth I’m talking about is… emotional. It clings to surfaces. After something good happens, the afterglow lingers. This morning, it’s everywhere.” She ran her hand along the top of the comforter, fingers lightly following the stitching, as if feeling for more than just the cotton.

Laura prodded: “So you can’t see… like, if the sheets are white, or the walls are blue?”

Myra shook her head. “I can see writing, but I can’t see color, or even light, really. If you turned the lights off, it would look exactly the same to me. I navigate by the shapes, the outlines, and by the feeling that radiates from people or objects that have meaning to someone.” She smiled, small and a little embarrassed. “I remember your hair is black and your eyes are blue, but if you dyed your hair, or wore contact lenses, I wouldn’t know. I can see the art on the walls, but I don’t know the colors of it. But I can see the colors around you when you’re happy, or the way tension lingers after an argument. I could find my way through a pitch-black room full of sleeping people without tripping, just by the emotions of their dreams.”

Laura took this in. The one closest to Myra asked, “What’s it like now?” The other Laura leaned in, as if to catch the answer more clearly.

Myra took a slow, measured breath. “It feels like we left a.. an aura, from last night. Like every part of the room got impressed with the fact that it mattered. It’s… comfortable.” She paused, then added, “There’s a lot of gold and red, which means warmth, and a shimmer of something bright, which is usually joy. I’ve never seen it this strong.”

Andy lay there, not moving, letting the image fill in. It was a good way to describe the night—a long, slow burn of pleasure that left the air glowing.

Laura smiled in stereo. “Last night, I could feel everything at once,” she said, and this time the voice was perfectly merged, not an echo but a singular statement. “Every place Andy touched me, and every place Andy touched you, it all doubled. It was like standing in the center of a storm and being hit from every side, but not painful. Just… overwhelming. And amazing.” She looked at Myra, the gaze clear and direct. “Did you feel it? In my emotions?”

Myra stilled, her ears flattening. “You mean, all of it? What Andy did, what I did, everything?”

Laura nodded, both bodies moving together.

Myra said, “I did. I wasn’t sure if I should talk about it.”

Laura’s voice was soft but unflinching. “The Bond of Marriage works that way for every woman in the harem. If Andy is with someone, I feel it—sometimes in my own skin, sometimes just as a shadow, depending on how I modulate it, but it’s always there.” She tucked her hair behind her ear, a gesture that both bodies did it in sync. “The transformation’s description was very clear. I chose it on purpose. I wanted to be present for every part of Andy’s life, not just my own share of it. Even if it can be a lot sometimes.” She looked down, her voice steady. “And last night, it wasn’t, at all.”

A silence, not heavy, but full. Myra’s tails pressed closer to her legs, as if holding in the warmth of what she’d just heard.

Andy asked, “Did you know that’s what it would be like? That intense?”

Laura’s voice: “I did. Arabella made it clear, when she put the votes up. It wasn’t a surprise.” She glanced at Myra, then at Andy, the look meaningful. “I wanted it to be that way. For us, for the harem. I didn’t want to miss anything, or be left out again.” She laughed, not self-pitying, just honest. “I know that sounds possessive, but after so long being dead, I think I earned it.”

Myra’s face broke into a real smile. “I think I understand that now, better than I did yesterday.”

Andy said, “I’m glad last night happened as it did.” He meant it. The words landed, warm and clear.

For a while, they just lay there. Laura stretched out on his right side, both of her, Myra sprawled on the left, all four bodies held by the shape of the bed. No one rushed to get up, and the only sound was the slow thrum of the Suite’s heating system.

Then Laura remembered what else the day required. She shifted, untangling herself from Andy’s side, the abruptness of the motion a little too careful to be natural, hair falling loose around her faces. “Before we do anything else,” Laura said, the two voices merging in perfect sync, “there’s something you should know. Both of you.”

Andy sat up, rubbing his hands over his face. “What’s up?”

Laura hesitated. “Yesterday, when I was in the Hollow Garden with Marie, she asked me to bring Riley with us next time.” She smiled wearily. “She said it’s time for the truth. Sandra’s agreed to be present, behind a partition. She wants to meet Riley.” Laura’s hands curled in the sheet. “Marie said it isn’t fair to keep it from her any longer.”

Andy felt the air in the room change, some current drawing through all three of them at once. “She wants us to bring Riley down today?” he said.

Laura nodded, and the second Laura did too, a frame or two behind. “She said to come before noon. She thinks it might help to see us together, so there’s context. I think… I think Marie might have pressed Sandra a little. I think seeing Riley two days ago made her change her mind about Sandra hiding forever.”

Myra hadn’t moved since she sat up, but now her tails went absolutely flat, every bit of fluff compressed to the mattress as if pinned by gravity. “How much do you want to tell her?” Myra asked. “Just that her mother is here, or the rest?”

Laura breathed out. “All of it. No more games. No letting Riley find out from a napkin note or from someone else’s accident. We bring her, we tell her everything, we stay with her through the whole thing.”

Andy nodded. It was the only way.

For a while, no one said anything. The hush wasn’t empty; it was full of the kind of anticipation that comes before you set a bone, or before you tell someone the world is about to shift again.

Laura broke it. “Myra,” she said, one body turning fully to face her, “How do you feel about this? I mean, today?”

Myra rolled her shoulders, testing the tension there. “I think it’s necessary. But I also think Riley should hear it from you, Laura. Or maybe both of you at once.” She smiled, small and careful. “I’m not always good with heavy news, but I can help.”

Laura met her gaze, and Andy could tell the moment she resolved to let Myra in. “You’re the only one here who understands what it’s like to be adopted, and then to meet a parent after a lifetime of questions,” Laura said. “You can do it. And Riley is our sister.”

Myra let her tails uncoil, just a little. “Okay,” she said.

Laura’s other body looked at Andy. “Do you think Riley will be okay?”

Andy took a long moment to answer. “I think,” he said, “that Riley has always wanted to know where she came from, even if she spent her whole life saying it didn’t matter. If we do this right, it could give her something she lost a long time ago. And if we do it wrong, at least she won’t have to wonder anymore.”

Laura nodded, the two heads in perfect sync. “She deserves the truth, even if it hurts.”

Nobody made the first move to get up, not even when the clock advanced by ten more minutes and a slant of light made a stripe on the far wall. The bedsheets stayed tangled around four sets of legs, everyone still close, but the silence had gone from tense to companionable.

Laura’s stomach grumbled, loud enough to be unmistakable. Both her bodies froze, then went red at the ears. “I’m hungry,” said Laura, in sync. Her two sets of blue eyes looked at Andy, then at Myra, and both started laughing.

Myra shook her head, then stretched her arms overhead, spine arcing in a way that looked half-cat and half-yoga pose. “You take the shower first,” she said, voice still thick with sleep. “You are more awake than I am.” Laura grinned, sliding in a single coordinated motion off the side of the bed. She paused at the door to the master bath, one hand on the knob, the other waving over a yawn. She stepped inside, closed the door, and a few moments later the shower roared to life, muffled behind frosted glass.

Andy let himself relax for another minute. Myra’s fox tails traced the top of the comforter with idle little flicks, each movement measured, almost mathematical. She was awake, clearly, but not in a rush to get to the rest of the day. Andy rolled onto his side, propped his head on his arm, and watched her for a while. She looked back, blind eyes angled just above his face. He never knew if she could actually see the shape of him in detail, but it always felt like she did.

“When you were telling us how your Emotion’s Map works,” Andy asked. “Does it even work through a closed door?”

Myra made a small sound, not quite a laugh. “Emotional fields are like heat. They leak. I can feel the mood in the next room, but not see the specifics. Unless you’re having an argument, or—” She stopped, ears flattening in embarrassment. “Never mind.”

“Or?”

“Or someone’s thinking about you, hard,” Myra finished. “Sometimes it’s not pleasant, but last night was different.”

Andy grinned. “You’re blushing.”

Myra rolled her eyes. “My body doesn’t know what to do with that information, so it just dumps it on my cheeks. Blame the fox genes.”

From the bathroom, water ran louder, the sound bouncing off marble and tile. The thought of both Lauras sharing a shower amused Andy more than it probably should have. “How do you want to do this?” he asked, “Do you want to go after, or—”

“I’d rather go with you,” Myra said, interrupting with the softest flicker of a smile. “If that’s alright.” She sat up, tails coiling, arms bracing on either side of her legs. “I can do things myself, but it’s easier with help.”

Andy raised an eyebrow. “With help, or with company?”

Myra shrugged, slow and noncommittal, but didn’t look away, and a small smile appeared on her lips.

“Let’s give her a minute,” Andy said, “Or Laura will yell at us for hurrying her along.”

“I think we’d survive,” Myra said. Her tails stilled, then resumed their slow wave. She stretched, the motion catlike, then swung her legs over the bed and stood, steady and self-correcting.

They waited in companionable quiet until the shower stopped. The door opened. Both of Laura’s selves emerged, hair towel-wrapped, skin still glowing from the steam. Each had a towel slung over her chest, identical and slightly too small for modesty. One of Laura’s bodies bent to pick up a shirt from the floor, the other searched the closet, and neither so much as seemed embarrassed at rummaging through Andy's clothes, or flinched at the sight of Andy and Myra watching.

Laura said, “I’m making breakfast,” with a finality utterly at odds with the subject matter. “Don’t take too long,” she added, one of her bodies already halfway into a t-shirt stolen from Andy.

Andy nodded. “We’ll be quick.”

When Laura moved off down the hall, Andy turned to Myra. She was already heading to the bathroom, barefoot, tails trailing behind. He caught up to her.

Inside the master bath, Myra found the water, tested it, then stepped in. She turned so her tails didn’t get soaked, and once the temperature was set, she tilted her head toward Andy—not waiting, just acknowledging. He joined her. The steam was already thick enough to blur the glass, but Myra moved through it like it wasn’t there, her unfocused eyes aimed somewhere past his shoulder while she reached without hesitation for the shampoo on the shelf.

She worked it into her hair, scrubbing with more energy than Andy was used to seeing from her. The smell was citrus and something else—juniper, maybe. He closed his eyes and let the water run over his back.

“Did you ever shower with someone before?” Myra asked, so casual Andy almost missed the weight in the question.

“Plenty of times,” he said. “You?”

She rinsed the lather out. “Not once. Too much body, too little time.” A beat. “It’s different than I expected.” She turned her back to him. “Can you help with the tails? Just the ends.”

He took up the conditioner, working it into the thick, damp fur. It was softer than he expected, somewhere between silk and cashmere, and warm to the touch. He combed through gently, then let the water carry the excess away.

Myra shuddered, a little at first, then a lot. “That’s enough,” she said, not angry but urgent. “Sorry. They’re—“

“I know,” Andy said. “Sensitive.”

“It’s more than that,” Myra said, her breath catching. “It’s like every touch runs through my whole spine.”

He finished with a careful rinse, then turned her so the spray hit her face. She let the water run over her, then shut it off in a practiced, swift movement.

“I could get used to this,” she said, as Andy reached for a towel. “Not the being blind, but the—“ She stopped. “Never mind.”

He wrapped the towel around her, then drew one for himself. “You can say it.”

She was quiet for a moment. “Do you remember my first morning here? I came in to avoid being alone and you were already in the shower. I stood there for probably two full minutes before I realized—“ She stopped again.

“Realized what?”

“That you were naked,” Myra said, with great dignity. “Under the water. Obviously. I just—it didn’t occur to me immediately.”

“You stayed for the whole time, though.”

“I was orienting myself. It was a new space.”

“You were also,” Andy said, “putting out foxfire.”

Myra’s ears went flat. A long pause. Then, despite herself, she laughed—short and genuine and slightly mortified. “That is deeply unfair,” she said. “You can’t just—that’s not—“ She gave up on that sentence entirely and started a new one. “I don’t usually—“ She stopped again. Her tails, still damp at the tips, curled once and settled. She looked somewhere past his collarbone. “I like not being alone in the morning,” she said finally, very quietly. “I was not used to it, before the show.”

“I like waking up next to you in the morning,” Andy said.

They dried off, trading the towel back and forth, then dressed in companionable silence. When they emerged from the bedroom, both Lauras were already in the kitchen, working in perfect sync: one whisked eggs while the other buttered toast, their motions so choreographed it almost looked like a music video. They didn’t speak, but when Andy and Myra entered, both sets of blue eyes flicked over, registering their presence and filing it away.

Laura said, “Breakfast in three minutes,” and one of her selves set out mugs and plates, each move deliberate and precise.

Andy tasted the eggs when Laura scooped them onto his plate. “These are really good,” he said. “Better than the last two times.”

Both Lauras made a satisfied sound, a shared hum of pride.

Myra said, “What was wrong with the last two?”

Andy shrugged. “First time they were rubbery, second time underseasoned.”

Laura pointed her spatula at him. “The salt shaker was broken,” she said, as if that closed the book on the matter.

They sat at the table, four plates lined up in a row. Andy noticed how the kitchen, which was usually a place of chaos, had an air of calm that made every bite taste better. There was an ease to the way everyone moved, like they’d done this every morning for years.

Andy was the one to bring up the next subject. “How do we tell Riley?” he asked, breaking the brief hush.

Laura’s bodies put down their forks. Both looked at Andy, then at Myra. She said, “The order matters. She needs to know her mother is alive before anything else. If you start with Greg, it’ll be too much. If you start with Sandra, maybe it’s survivable. The rest can follow.”

Myra nodded. “Greg was always an aftershock. The real trauma is losing your anchor. If she knows her mom is out there, even hidden, it’s a life raft.”

Andy asked, “And if she rejects it?”

Laura shook her heads. “Then at least she knows. It’s the not-knowing that eats you. Trust me.” She finished her eggs, set the fork down. “We have to do it before lunch. If we wait too long, Sandra might change her mind.” She looked at Andy, both bodies intent. “You need to be present for all of it. If she needs to scream, let her. But don’t try to make her feel better. Just… stay.”

Andy nodded. “I will.”

They let the conversation lapse, eating the rest of the meal in a thoughtful quiet. The eggs were fine—a little dense, maybe, the edges slightly past crisp—but Andy cleaned his plate without noticing until it was empty.

It was after the last forkful that the day’s final addition made her entrance.

Katherine came in through the bedroom doorway, her physical form entirely present and, as always, completely nude. Her black hair was loose, falling almost to her ankles, and her eyes sparkled with the same wry amusement that Andy remembered from their first meeting. She took in the scene, four bodies arranged at the table, and cocked her head.

Laura’s selves both froze for a half-second, then continued as if nothing had happened.

Katherine moved to the kitchen island, poured herself a cup of coffee, then walked it to the table, ignoring the open chair and instead settling herself on the edge of the island, legs crossed, posture both casual and perfectly composed.

Katherine didn’t say anything at first. She just watched them—Andy, two Lauras, and Myra—with a slow, satisfied half-smile, both hands cradling her coffee. She looked fully awake, but not in a rush.

Andy caught the glance, the way her gaze drifted from his face to Laura’s, then to Myra, then back again. There was nothing predatory in it; just a deep, unembarrassed satisfaction, like she was savoring something she never thought she’d get to taste again.

Myra spoke up first. “You look pleased,” she said. “Like someone who just had a very good night and a better morning.”

Katherine’s smile widened. She set her mug down and held up one finger—wait—then pointed to her own eyes, made a slow arc with two fingers that swept deliberately across Andy, both Lauras, and Myra in turn, and finished with a thumbs-up, her expression bright with uncomplicated satisfaction.

Myra’s ears went straight up. “She—“ She stopped, suddenly realizing something about her. “Was she—“ She looked at Andy. “Did she watch us?”

“She watches everything,” Andy said. “She’s been watching from the painting since before you got here.”

Laura was looking at her plates with the careful, studied attention of someone trying not to laugh.

Myra’s tails puffed. She turned to Katherine, who had folded her hands in her lap and was radiating the specific composure of someone who has absolutely no regrets. “That’s—“ Myra started, then stopped again. Her ears flattened. A long pause. “That is a completely unreasonable thing to just—“ She gestured vaguely at the painting, the room, the general situation. “From the wall?”

Katherine nodded, serene.

“She hasn’t run out of novelty yet,” Andy said. “Every morning is a new one.”

Myra pointed at him. “You are not helping.” She looked back at Katherine, who had retrieved her mug and was watching her over the rim with an expression of pure, unrepentant satisfaction. “That is,” Myra said, with great dignity, “a lot of information to receive before I’ve finished my eggs.”

Katherine pressed her palms to her sternum, fingers spread wide, and breathed in deep through her nose—slow, deliberate, savoring. Laura finally gave up and laughed. Katherine nodded, once, and let her arms fall to her sides.

Both of Laura smiled at her. “Do you want some eggs?”

Katherine pointed at the pan, then at her own mouth, then nodded.

Laura’s bodies jumped up together. One retrieved a fresh plate from the rack; the other scooped a round of scrambled eggs onto it, then sprinkled it with salt and the cracked black pepper that Andy knew she secretly preferred. Katherine accepted the plate, gave Laura a brief, grateful look, and took her seat again—this time at the edge of the table, facing the rest of them.

For a few seconds, there was no sound but the soft scrape of forks, the gentle shuffle of feet against the tile. Andy kept an eye on Myra, who seemed to drift between present and absent: one moment, she’d be watching the room with the same careful attention as always; the next, her gaze would go unfocused, and her ears would track every tiny shift in the group’s emotional tone.

He watched her tails, too. In the breakfast light, the fur looked almost liquid, and as they moved—sometimes together, sometimes counterpoint—they gave off a faint afterglow, like morning mist burning away in the sun.

Katherine ate slowly, with deliberate, precise bites. She kept her eyes mostly on the food, but whenever she looked up, it was to check on Andy, or on one of Laura's bodies, or to see if Myra was doing okay. She didn’t seem to care that she was the only one undressed. If anything, the difference seemed to please her.

Katherine sipped her coffee, then set the mug down. She touched two fingers to her ear, then pointed at Andy, then at Laura, then at Myra—she had been listening. Then she pressed one finger to her own sternum, and made a slow, deliberate arc toward the far wall, the one that faced the direction of the elevator and, beyond that, the Hollow Garden.

Andy watched the gesture. “You want to come with us?”

Katherine’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly—a small, private thing that moved through her eyes and was gone. She set her fork down, touched two fingers to her sternum, then held up one hand and spread all five fingers. She folded four of them down, leaving only the index, and pointed it at the far wall—the direction of the Hollow Garden—then pressed both hands flat against her heart.

Andy watched her. “Someone’s there,” he said, understanding. “Someone you want to see. Eden.”

Katherine nodded once, carefully, like it was something she’d been holding for a long time. Andy reached out and placed his hand on hers. “Of course.” Katherine’s smile was grateful and blinding.

Andy finished his eggs, wiped his mouth with the corner of a napkin, and leaned back. “So it’s settled. We finish up here, and then we go find Riley.”

He looked at Myra, who was picking at a piece of toast with more curiosity than appetite. “Are you ready for this?”

She didn’t answer right away. She finished chewing, set the toast down, and folded her hands in her lap. “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be,” she said. “But I think it’s going to hurt Riley. Maybe more than we think.”

Andy nodded. “She deserves the truth, even if it hurts.”

Laura nodded in sync. “That’s how I would want it, if it was me,” she said.

Katherine, who’d been watching the exchange with careful attention, reached over and placed a hand gently on Myra’s forearm, just above the wrist. She didn’t squeeze, just rested her hand there, then let go and drew back. Myra didn’t flinch or pull away. Instead, her tails went almost completely still, the fur smoothing as if they’d been combed flat by invisible fingers.

Andy took that as the cue to get up. He stood, cleared his plate, and set it in the sink. The rest of the table followed, each in their own rhythm. Myra rinsed her plate with the casual efficiency of someone who’d worked in a hospital for years. Both Laura's selves moved with a practiced choreography: one took Katherine’s plate, the other handled the coffee mugs. Katherine lingered, just a beat, then joined them at the sink, her hair falling in a curtain between her and the rest of the room.

When the table was clean, Andy turned to the others. “Anything else before we go?”

Laura shook her heads.

Myra stood behind the chair, hands clasped, tails fanned for balance.

Katherine gave a little salute, then pointed at the elevator door, then at herself, then back at Andy, as if to say: I’ll meet you there.

Andy watched her go, the line of her back straight and purposeful, her gait as fluid as any cat. He turned to Myra. “You sure you’re okay?”

She nodded, once, then leaned in, quick and birdlike, to kiss him on the cheek. “I’m sure.” Both of Laura did the same, one on each side. He ran a hand through his hair, straightened his shirt, and followed the others out of the room.

The Banquet Hall was quiet except for the distant sound of silverware on ceramic and the faintest hum of the cooling system. Riley sat alone near the back windows, her feet propped on a chair rung, cradling a battered white mug in both hands. The table in front of her was crowded with evidence of a serious breakfast: a plate of eggs, the remains of a grapefruit, a neatly dissected pastry, a stack of paper napkins, and the half-emptied mug. She had her head down, scanning a paperback novel. Andy recognized the telltale way she read—a page every thirty seconds, never blinking, absorbing and filing with full intent. When they entered, her eyes didn’t lift right away, but her shoulders stiffened just so.

Both of Laura walked in ahead of Andy, and for a split second, the effect was like watching a double exposure: same stride, same quick intake of air, both scanning the room before locking eyes with Riley. Myra entered last, her two fox tails low and sweeping, the tips nearly brushing the floor. The three of them approached Riley as a wedge—Andy in the center, Myra to his right, Laura’s two bodies to his left—and only as they reached the table did Riley close her book and set it down, bookmark inserted with clinical precision.

Riley studied the four of them in silence, her gaze settling on Andy. Then she looked at both Laura, then at Myra. Riley’s mouth twitched in a not-quite-smile.

“It’s not my date day. So. Are we staging an intervention, or did someone die?” Riley said, tone dry as chalk.

Andy took the seat directly across from her. Laura flanked him on the left, folding both sets of hands on the table. Myra slid into the chair to Riley’s right, tails spreading out for stability.

Andy smiled, but not much. “We wanted to check in on you first,” he said. “How’d you sleep?”

Riley raised an eyebrow. “I slept,” she said. “You know what would help? If someone told me why I’m getting the full parade at breakfast.”

Both of Laura exchanged a glance with Andy—silent, loaded. Myra’s hands folded on the tabletop, fingers laced tightly. Andy took a moment, then said, “It’s about the Hollow Garden. And some things we learned there.”

Riley snorted. “You mean the secret rehab colony, or whatever it is?”

“That’s the one,” said Myra, her voice low but clear.

Riley set her mug down. “You mean Marie, right? Your mom. You went back?”

Myra nodded. “A couple days ago. With Laura.”

Both of Laura's selves looked at Riley, then at Andy. “There’s more to it,” Andy said, “and it kind of... involves you.”

Riley rolled her eyes, but the affect was less irritation and more prep. “Just do it,” she said. “This isn’t my first apocalypse.”

Andy smiled, then leaned forward, arms on the table. “Okay. There’s a lot, but I’ll go slow.”

He glanced at both Laura for a signal. One Laura nodded—her tell for go ahead. So Andy did. “Myra’s mother—Marie—she’s in the Hollow Garden, you already know that. But what we learned is that she was taken, along with her sister, as part of a group of contestants. The sister’s name is Sarah. She’s also in the Hollow Garden, though… not well. She hasn’t been... present in years.” He kept his gaze on Riley, but Laura watched her just as closely, two pairs of blue eyes tracking the tremor in Riley’s jaw. Myra, on Riley’s right, sat perfectly still, her tails pressed to the vinyl of the chair as if bracing for an earthquake.

For a long moment, Riley just stared at her hands, thumbs worrying the rim of her mug. Then she glanced at Andy, not quite meeting his eyes. “That’s a lot of context for before breakfast,” she said, her voice intentionally flat. “Are you going to tell me the rest, or do I need to guess?”

Andy swallowed. “We learned something about Sarah,” he said. “About her time on the island. About… Laura.”

Both of Laura looked at Riley, their heads slightly canted, the posture almost protective.

Andy continued: “Sarah isn’t just in the Hollow Garden. She’s Laura’s mother. We knew her as Precious, or Princess, but...” He heard one of the Lauras inhale, a thread of sound so slight it barely registered, but Riley heard it too—her eyes snapped up and locked on Laura. For the first time since they’d sat down, she looked almost afraid.

“I thought…” Riley said, her voice trailing off.

Andy said, “Laura didn’t know, until a few days ago.”

Both Lauras said, at once: “I didn’t know until last week.” Her tone was identical, earnest, without apology.

Riley’s mouth worked, but no words came out. She looked at Andy, then at Myra, then back to Laura. “So you’re cousins?”

Myra’s voice was soft: “We’re cousins. Our mothers are sisters. But the truth is, we share more than that.”

Riley exhaled, a long, measured drag. Her hands were trembling, and she pressed them hard to the tabletop to still them.

Andy said, “They were in the same season. Marie and Sarah. They survived together.”

Riley let the words settle. Then she said, “If you tell me they share a father, I’m going to throw this coffee at your face.”

Andy winced. “The father is… complicated.”

Riley waited, her eyes narrow. Andy said, “The Master of their season was a man named Greg. Greg Ashford.” He let the name hang.

Riley’s face changed, the skin around her eyes drawing tight. “Laura’s father Greg?”

Both Lauras nodded, slowly, like they were moving through glue. Riley made a short, staccato sound, somewhere between a laugh and a curse. “Of course. Of course it’s the same guy.” She stared at the mug, then looked up slowly. “Wait.” Her eyes moved to Myra, then to both Lauras. “That means you two are—“

Both Lauras nodded, once, together.

Riley sat back. “Half-sisters,” she said, like she was testing the weight of it. “You’re actually half-sisters.”

“Half-sisters,” Myra confirmed, quietly. Both of Laura nodded, once, together. Myra’s hand was close to Riley’s mug. She didn’t reach out, but she was ready. Riley glanced at the mug, then at Andy's face, then seemed to change her mind.

Riley said, “Is this what this is about? You brought me here to tell me my best friend’s dad was the Master of a previous season, and that you’re all related, so I can have some kind of closure? Because—” Her voice cracked and she brought it back, biting off the words. “Because I’m still not seeing the part that involves me.”

Andy shook his head. “We wouldn’t do that to you. That’s not why we’re here.”

Laura echoed him. “We’re here because there’s something you should know.”

Myra leaned forward. “It’s about your own mother, Riley.”

Riley’s face closed. Andy watched her walls go up, brick by brick. “Don’t,” she said, barely audible. “Don’t say it.”

He said, softly, “Her name is Sandra. Sandra Guerrero.”

Riley waited. When nothing followed, she said, “Okay.” Her eyes moved from Andy to Myra to both Lauras. “Am I supposed to know that name?”

Andy said, “She was another Contestant. On Greg’s season.”

Riley’s face didn’t change, but her hands went still around the mug. “You’re telling me my mother was on the show,” she said. Not a question. Her voice had gone very flat, the way it did when she was doing math she didn’t like the answer to.

Myra said, quietly, “She was eliminated by Greg. She survived, but he **** her to give up her daughter before she ever got to hold her. She never got her back. She’s been in the Hollow Garden ever since.” She paused. “Riley. Sandra Guerrero is your mother.”

The mug hit the table. Not thrown—just set down, hard, like Riley needed both hands free. She stood up slowly, the chair scraping back. Her mouth opened, then closed. When she finally spoke, her voice had gone somewhere very small and very controlled. “I don’t have a birth certificate,” she said. “I don’t even have a real birthday. I have never had a name to put in that blank.” She looked at Andy, and for just a moment the toughness went somewhere else entirely. “You’re telling me she’s been down there this whole time?”

No one answered. There was nothing to answer. Riley pressed both palms to the table. “That’s not fair,” she said, barely audible.

Both Lauras said, quietly, “We know.”

Riley stared at them, both of them, and for the first time Andy saw something break in her face, the tough mask slipping, replaced by something small and scared. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Andy tried to keep his voice steady. “We found out a few days ago, but we were asked not to tell you.”

Myra’s voice was all empathy, all warmth: “Sandra wants to see you, but—” She glanced at Andy, at both Laura, then back to Riley. “She can’t come all the way to the top. She’s been… changed. She doesn’t want you to see what she looks like now.”

Riley processed that for a long moment. She sat down slowly, knees locked, every muscle in her body rigid. “Changed how?”

Myra’s hands folded on the table. “She has a tail. Dog ears. She's nude, and moves on all fours, mostly. Greg designed the elimination himself, and Arabella couldn’t fully undo it.” She paused. “She’s still herself. She still speaks. But she looks—“

“Like a dog-girl,” Riley said.

“Yes.”

Riley’s laugh was short and humorless. She looked at Andy. “You’re telling me my long-lost mother is a dog-woman in a garden under a reality show island.”

Andy nodded, and said, “She misses you. She’s been down there for years.”

“Lots of people could say that.” Riley’s jaw was tight. “That doesn’t make her my mother.” She stared at the mug for a long moment, then set it down, carefully, like it had become fragile. Andy could hear the conflict in her voice, the want to believe fighting with the doubt and the fear. “I need to see her,” she said. “I don’t care what she looks like. I need to hear this from her.”

Laura said, in stereo, “We’ll go with you. Whenever you’re ready. They’re expecting us downstairs.”

For a long minute, no one spoke. Then Riley drew a sleeve across her eyes, once, rough, like she was sanding away a layer of feeling. “All right,” she said. “Let’s do it now, before I change my mind.”

Andy stood up. Laura did the same, moving to either side of Riley, not touching her but standing ready. Myra rose last, tails unfurling, her hand briefly brushing Riley’s wrist, the gesture so subtle it almost didn’t happen.

They moved together, a unit, out through the echoing space of the Banquet Hall. Riley kept her arms wrapped around her midsection, and looked very small. At the threshold, a sudden flash of movement caught Andy’s eye: Mildred, dressed in a housekeeper’s uniform, materialized from nowhere and fell into step beside him.

Mildred’s voice was syrupy, so sweet it was nearly parody: “Master Andy, I have a message for you. Contestant Freeman asked that you visit her in the Sky Archive this morning, at your earliest convenience.”

Andy hesitated, then nodded. “Thank you. Could you please tell her I’ll be there after this?”

Mildred smiled, her eyes black and endless. “I will convey your message. Good luck.” She vanished, or at least, when Andy glanced back she was already gone, not even a shadow behind.

At the elevator, the doors were open, and Katherine stood in front of them. She looked at Andy, then at Riley, then at Myra and both of Laura’s selves, her eyes lingering just a fraction longer on the last. She raised one hand in a crisp, elegant wave, then stepped aside, inviting them in.

Riley looked at her for a long moment, then said, “Is it always like this?” her voice more tired than biting.

Katherine smiled with her eyes, then held out a hand as if to say: After you.

Andy guided the others in. The elevator doors closed, and the world shifted.