Vessels

Emi always thought the Forest of Beginnings was the purest place on the island—untainted by the world’s schemes, just cool blue shadows and a million shades of gentle light, and the sound of her own breath, multiplied by six. Here, every version of herself felt plausible. Each hand, each nervous twitch, each thought that tangled into the next—it all found its rhythm beneath the trees.

But today, with Laura walking again (walking twice, even) aboveground, the forest felt dangerously more magical, like a place that had just learned miracles were allowed, and might start trying them.

She’d come here, as she always did after the world changed, to walk the spiral paths and let her feet invent a pattern. The trick of the Forest was that it didn’t permit straight lines: every loop fed into another, and every clear destination dissolved the moment you thought you’d found it. Emi had learned to embrace the drift, six hands trailing through leaves and moss, body always half a beat away from total dissolution.

Her body was changing. She could feel it—not just the slight gain in height, or the fullness in her chest that pressed her dress in unfamiliar ways, but the new stability, the secret sense of being anchored to her own outline. Sometimes the sensations came with a strange unreality, like waking from a dream where she’d been taller, greater, brighter, and realizing some of it had followed her back. She wondered if it was what “real girls” felt like, or if it was simply a gift Arabella had decided she deserved. There was a secret satisfaction in knowing that no matter what the Audience chose, she would outgrow herself every time.

She loved it here. She’d made the Forest for herself, but also for Andy—a place where neither of them had to explain why the world didn’t make sense. In the beginning, the paths had been wide and timid, as if afraid of getting in trouble. But as she’d returned, again and again, the trails had deepened. A favorite birch, pale as old bone. The mossy log where she’d once tried to draw a portrait of him, only to end up with a six-armed tangle. Her bench, under the glassy fox, where she could see the light shift as day became night and back again. The Forest was patient; it let her rework her errors, it held onto her best days.

But Laura was back now. And the myth that had haunted her dreams for years was, somehow, made literal. Laura: the ghost who’d haunted Andy, and Emi by extension; the name that was always spoken in present tense, even after it should have been impossible. She’d tried to picture the reunion—tried to imagine Laura’s return as a kind of exorcism for the both of them.

What she hadn’t expected was how solid Laura felt. Not holy. Not untouchable. Just… real. Laura was not an apparition. She was a woman now, a double-bodied girl with the exact same gravity she’d had as a child, only squared.

Emi had seen it happen, during the ceremony. Watched the way the world bent around Laura, how every pair of eyes drew to her like compass needles. Even now, Emi could picture Laura’s faces, beautiful and unguarded, the familiar sadness in both pairs of eyes. And Andy and Laura, together... There’d been a beat—a single breath—where Emi felt like the entire hotel might fall off the cliff and into the ocean, just from the impact of Laura existing again, and Andy and Laura being reunited.

The return of the prodigal myth.

She paused at her favorite birch, six hands pressed flat to the bark, feeling the cold bite into her skin. She closed her eyes and counted—one, two, three, four, five, six—each hand a locus for a different thought.

First: She wasn’t jealous. Not really. A little shaken, yes—but jealousy implied scarcity, and this felt like the opposite. The world had just proven it could do impossible things.

Second: She was relieved. Laura was alive. That meant the story didn’t have to end with guilt, or longing, or the feeling that every good memory had a tombstone planted in it.

Third: She was afraid—not of Laura, but of scale. Resurrection was loud. What did that make a forest grown one spiral at a time?

Fourth: She was curious. Did any of the other girls have a vision of Laura, or was she the only one who’d seen her in the Garden of Glass?

Fifth: She felt a warmth she hadn’t known in years. The dream version of Laura, the one she’d met in the Garden, had promised Emi that she’d be better, if she could have another chance. Was this Laura the same Laura, or had the Garden lied?

Sixth: She was determined. Miracles didn’t erase the need to choose. She didn’t want to let her next date with Andy slip through her fingers. She’d wasted too much time on fear already. If she was going to be anything, it was going to be honest.

Emi let go of the tree, brushed off the sawdust, and followed the spiral path down to the shallow pool at the heart of the woods. The water was dark, but when she knelt beside it, six arms braced to hold her up, the surface reflected the stars—stars that didn’t exist anywhere else on the island.

She reached into the pool and stirred the water with two fingers. The circles spread out, touching the shore and the roots and the mossy stones. She watched The HH resolve in the glimmering waters.

For a moment, she had the odd, floating sense that if she leaned forward far enough, she might see herself kneeling here and somewhere else at the same time—not truly in two places, just… echoing. Like a thought that hadn’t decided where to land.

She shook her head softly, smiling at herself. “Get a grip,” she murmured.

She tried to imagine what she would say to Andy, if she could strip off all the fear and awkwardness and just tell the truth. She tried to picture telling him that she didn’t want to be the afterthought, the easy option, or the person he came to when the others were too busy with their own troubles. That she wanted to be his friend, but also his lover, and maybe more. That she didn’t mind sharing him—not at all—but she wanted to be wanted, not just welcomed.

She tried to picture telling him that she’d stopped fantasizing about fixing herself into something simpler. That she liked herself now—six arms, foot in mouth, strange thoughts and all—and that what she wanted most was to still be here when the next impossible thing happened.

She traced a line across the pool, watching the ripples erase it. “You get one more chance, Emi,” she said, soft and serious. “Don’t disappear inside your own head.”

She thought of the other girls. Dawn, with her bouncy energy and steady optimism, who never seemed threatened by anyone’s presence. Chloe, who was so obviously a good person it hurt to even stand near her. Riley, always the hurricane, who could turn any situation into a test of will. Liesa, whose very existence made Emi want to step up her own game. Myra, who was so broken and beautiful that Emi felt protective and jealous at the same time. And, of course, Laura: the axis on which every other Contestant spun, whether they admitted it or not, even as Laura herself orbited Andy.

She liked them. She loved them, a little. Like sisters who’d survived the same strange summer and would never quite be able to explain it to anyone else.

It helped. Knowing she wasn’t in competition—not really. That she could just be Emi, and if that meant being the strange one who built forests and talked to pools, then fine.

She sat there a while longer, letting the air cool her skin, rehearsing lines she knew she’d forget the moment she saw Andy. Maybe that was okay. Maybe showing up was enough.

She’d once read that every time someone chose hope over fear, a new star appeared somewhere in the universe. Emi wondered if that was why her forest was so full of them—and whether it would need to make room for a few more.

She stood, stretched all six arms overhead, felt her spine pop in a cascade. Then she gathered herself—smoothed her dress, tucked her hair back, wiped her upper palms on the hem.

Time to go back.

She turned, walking the spiral path out of the woods. The shadows didn’t bother her now; they were part of the story, the negative space that let the light matter. She emerged into the blue twilight already thinking of small improvements—new paths, gentler turns, places to sit and breathe.

She didn’t know if she’d ever be ready for everything this world could throw at her. But she was ready to meet it, and she was ready for him.

From a nearby copse of trees, unnoticed, Anna simply watched, and smiled.

The sun was in that hour where it hit the terrace just right, baking the slate tiles and making the world outside the railings go sharp and white. Myra sat alone on the bench, fingers pressed into the seat’s grooves, listening to the way the air vibrated against her skin. The world smelled like ocean and rosemary, and the fabric of her dress was warm as a blood pressure cuff against her thighs.

She was blind again. Not the soft-blur, color-halo, outlines-of-emotion thing, but truly, finally blind—there weren’t enough people here to trigger the magic, and so her world was an ink stain she couldn’t wipe away. Sometimes she wondered if it would ever get easier, if her brain would accept the blackness as the new normal, or if she’d just learn to fake it so well that no one, not even herself, could tell the difference.

What scared her wasn’t the darkness itself—it was the thought that one day she might stop fighting it, and not know whether that meant strength or surrender.

She didn’t mind being alone, not exactly, but she hated the feeling of being left out. Everyone else had peeled away after the ceremony, running toward their own projects or plans, and Myra—no project, no plan—had drifted up here like a ghost with nothing to haunt.

She was about to take inventory of her life’s regrets (a hobby she was alarmingly good at) when footsteps sounded on the flagstones, heavy and purposeful. The shoes stopped right in front of her. Then a body collapsed onto the bench beside her, causing it to dip and shudder. She smelled coffee, a faint undercurrent of burnt rubber, and the barest whiff of gardenia.

Sam.

“Hey, Calder,” said Sam. “Still sulking?”

Myra turned her head toward the voice, managed a smile. “Not sulking. Just thinking.”

Sam snorted. “Yeah, that’s what sulkers always say.”

There was a comfortable silence, broken only by the sound of Sam opening a soda can—she must have carried it up in her pocket. “You don’t have to fight anyone here, you know,” Sam said, voice low. “But you don’t get to disappear, either.”

Myra’s fingers fluttered, searching for the seam in the bench. “I’m already halfway invisible,” she said. “That’s the whole trick.”

Sam responded by bumping Myra’s shoulder with her own, not hard, but enough to set Myra listing. She righted herself and tried to look annoyed, but mostly felt anchored, like a child braced by an older sibling.

“You want a soda?” Sam asked, and before Myra could answer, pressed the cold can into her palm. Myra accepted it, feeling the metal sweat against her skin.

They sat in silence again, Myra tracing the can’s ridges with her thumb. She wanted to talk, but words felt like a fence she wasn’t sure she could climb.

Sam waited, because Sam was always better at giving space than anyone guessed. Eventually, Myra said, “I told Andy, after our last date, that I wanted more. That I wanted to try, with him. But then I said I wasn’t sure I was worth it, not like this.” She gestured vaguely at her face.

“Let me guess,” Sam said. “He did that thing where his voice goes all soft and you can hear the sincerity leaking out of his pores?”

Myra couldn’t help it. She laughed, even as her cheeks went hot. “Yeah. He’s like a therapy animal, but for guilt.”

Sam considered. “He’s a golden retriever. But with more neurosis.”

Myra sipped the soda. “I don’t know why I told him. I guess I just wanted him to hear it, even if it made me sound ****.”

“**** is fine,” said Sam. “Nobody on this island is playing it cool. Have you met half the women here? Chloe bakes cookies for people she’s afraid will judge her. Erin’s body is literally a science experiment. And me—” Sam spread her hands, “—I give advice to people who never take it. If anything, you had the guts to say what you want out loud.”

That made Myra feel marginally better, but also worse. “I think I’m just scared to want anything.”

Sam made a thoughtful noise. “You ever think about what you gained since you got here? Instead of what you lost?”

Myra almost dropped the soda. “What?”

Sam nudged her again, more gently. “Everyone here lost something. Some more than others. You lost your vision and your old life, but now you have… what? A fox tail? An emotional superpower? A second chance at not screwing everything up?” Sam’s tone softened. “I mean, you can still screw it up, but at least you have the option now.”

Myra opened her mouth to argue—and then stopped, unsettled by the fact that she couldn’t immediately dismantle the idea.

Sam fell silent, letting the ice melt in the can before she spoke again. Myra could hear the faint fizz of carbonation, the way Sam’s breath whistled slightly through her teeth, the subtle swish of Sam’s skirt as she sat back and crossed her legs.

The world was nothing but sounds and touches and memories now; even with the sun blasting on her skin, Myra felt like a negative—a photo burned too hot, shadows gone, only outlines left. She hated it. But she hated being pitied more, so she **** herself to smile, to make a joke, to prove she wasn’t broken.

“It’s hard to think about what I’ve gained,” Myra said. She ran her fingers up her fox tail, the softest fur she’d ever felt, and let herself shiver at the sensation. “I mean, sure, I have the superpowers, but you know what I miss? Not needing to ask for help to find my toothbrush.”

Sam snorted. “Yeah, but do you really? You hate brushing your teeth. You told me that after our first group dinner. You were, like, ‘There are better ways to pass a minute of my life.’ I remember thinking, this woman will either change the world, or burn it down.”

A laugh burst out of Myra before she could help it. “God. You have a memory like a bear trap.”

Sam’s voice was gentler now. “I’m just saying. You’re good at fixing people. Even with your eyes closed. But you can’t fix yourself by hating what happened.” She reached out and patted Myra’s thigh, three quick beats, like a rhythm. “So… what do you actually want? From him?”

Myra turned her head, even though it didn’t matter anymore. “You mean Andy?”

“Who else?” Sam said. “You already have the rest of us wrapped around your finger. Or tail. Whatever.”

The way Sam said it—so casual, like there was nothing strange about a grown woman with a tail or a harem of misfit genius girls—made Myra’s throat tighten. She was glad Sam didn’t push, just waited.

Myra tried to find the words. “I think I want… to stop running. For real. My whole life, I kept moving, kept doing. I was always going to be the best, or the first, or at least the last one standing. But then I went blind, and I couldn’t run anymore. So I fell apart.”

Sam didn’t move. She was the only person on the island who could make stillness feel like a shield instead of an accusation.

“It’s nice, sometimes, to have people take care of me,” Myra said, admitting it for the first time. “Like, when Dawn makes me tea, or Chloe checks the temperature before she puts my coffee in my hands. Even Liesa. I think she memorized the height of every step in the building, just so she could help me without saying anything.” Myra’s voice broke a little, but she didn’t care. “I never had that. Not in college, not in med school, not… anywhere.”

And to her own surprise, the admission didn’t feel like weakness. It felt like relief.

Sam tapped the can on the rail, thinking. “You never let anyone get close before. Not even other girls.”

“Because I always thought if I did, they’d see how much I wanted it,” Myra said. “And then they’d use it to hurt me.” She flicked her tail, the movement involuntary, like a nervous tic. “I didn’t know how good it could feel. To be needed, but also to be… wanted, I guess?”

Sam was quiet for a long moment. “You know,” she said, “for someone who’s supposed to be a genius, you’re a little slow on the uptake.”

Myra felt herself blush. “Rude.”

Sam grinned. “True, though.”

They sat in companionable silence. Myra listened to the world: the far-off call of a gull, the steady hum of the resort’s AC, the clink of ice in the can. She let herself settle into it.

Then, just as the moment threatened to drift, Sam nudged her arm. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“How does it work now?” Sam asked, voice suddenly softer. “The emotion thing. Your… what did you call it, your Echoes of Inner Worlds?”

Myra nodded, even though Sam couldn’t see it. “It’s… less sharp. When I got here, it was like a fire alarm. Every bad feeling—jealousy, shame, hate—was like a scream in my head. Sometimes I’d get so overwhelmed I’d want to bite my own arm just to shut it up.”

Sam let that sit, not filling the silence.

“But lately,” Myra continued, “it’s… changed. Maybe because everyone’s less angry. Maybe because I finally let go of a few things.” She twisted the can in her hands. “Sometimes, when it’s really quiet, I feel like the only thing left is… well, you know.”

“Yeah,” Sam said, “I know.” She let out a breath, the sound oddly intimate. “What about Laura? What do you feel when you’re around her?”

Myra didn’t want to answer, but she did. “I thought I’d be sick, honestly. The anger, the hatred, after the way I screwed everything up for her. But… I didn’t feel anything that bad. No burning, no screaming. Just this… sadness, maybe, this jealousy, but not like before.”

Sam nodded, satisfied. “So maybe she hasn’t forgiven you yet, but it’s not hopeless.”

Myra let herself smile, small but genuine. “You’re really good at this.”

“I know,” said Sam, pretending modesty. “But seriously. You may have lost your sight, but you’re not alone. No one here hates you, no one’s waiting for you to mess up. You’re one of us now.”

That was the scariest part, Myra realized. She actually wanted to belong.

Sam could probably hear the gears turning. “Just say it,” she prompted. “What’s the worst that happens? You want Andy, you want to be friends with the girls, you want to stop being so scared all the time. That’s not a crime.”

Myra laughed, surprised by the relief she felt. “Okay. I want Andy. I want to be with him, and I want to stop apologizing for it. I want to be able to say I’m happy, even if I don’t always know what happy feels like.”

Sam grinned. “There you go. That wasn’t so hard.”

“Actually, it was,” Myra said, but the words felt lighter coming out.

Sam stood up, stretching. “Let’s get you back to the others before you melt in the sun. Unless you want to start on a tan?”

Myra wrinkled her nose. “I’d probably burn in five minutes. Just call me albino vixen.”

“Fine by me,” Sam said. She extended a hand, and Myra took it. Sam’s grip was warm, steady, and absolutely certain.

As they walked down the path together, Myra could feel the world brightening at the edges, even if she couldn’t see it. She didn’t know what would happen next, but for the first time, she was ready to try.

She let her tail brush Sam’s leg, a silent thank you. Sam just squeezed her hand a little tighter, and asked her, “By the way, have you ever played Pathfinder?”

Dawn always thought that if she got to design paradise, she’d put a good pool smack in the middle—maybe a little swim-up bar, a few palm trees, a patch of deep shade for anyone who’d rather not bake. This one had all of the above, plus a view of the blue-green ocean and a distant, occasionally-sulking volcano. There was even a faint scent of sunscreen in the air, though Dawn couldn’t for the life of her figure out who on this island still bothered with SPF. Maybe the hotel staff sprayed it in the misters, just to be safe. And in the afternoon light, like now, it was bathed in gold.

She stretched, arching her back on the chaise lounge, and felt her breasts float a little before settling back in their cups with a sense of finality. The new bra—triple-layered, minimal structure, engineered for serious motion—was the only thing holding her in place, and even so, her chest felt like it belonged to someone else. J-cups, apparently, were a thing now.

Erin, sprawled on the next lounger over, was the picture of surrender: limbs loose, toes pointed, mint-green skin literally photosynthesizing. Naked except for simple canvas shoes, she’d propped one knee up and crossed her arms under her breasts, which were as huge and perky as Dawn's. She’d gone full plant-goddess, right down to the grass-colored areolas, which Dawn could not unsee no matter how she tried.

Chloe sat on the pool’s edge, legs dangling, hair up in a bun so tight it looked like she was prepping for surgery. Her bikini top was a heroic, doomed effort against the breast apocalypse; the white fabric gaped at the sides, and every so often she’d sneak a look down to check for slippage, blushing furiously each time she had to adjust. Her eyes darted between the other women, always soft, always a little anxious.

Riley, for her part, stood at the deep end, arms folded over a swim tee that didn’t even try to hide her bralessness. Her hair—black and red, so long it would have dragged the floor if she’d been indoors—was twisted up in a high knot. She had on dark swim shorts and stomped everywhere like she was ready to fight the pool for looking at her wrong. Every now and then, she’d flick her gaze to the ocean, then back to the group, as if confirming there were no surprise attacks in the works.

“So, do you think we can start a club?” Dawn said. She reached for the pitcher of iced tea and poured herself a glass, ears twitching at the sound. “Like, the Big Boob Alliance or something?”

“Sounds messy,” said Riley. She tipped her head, letting the sunlight hit her face. “You realize that if any of us dive in, the pool’s going to overflow. It’s basic physics.”

Erin didn’t open her eyes. “I vote we test it. Dawn first.”

Chloe looked at Dawn, then at Erin. “Do you even get in the pool anymore? Or does it mess with your… you know.” She mimed a plant growing, wiggling her fingers.

Erin cracked a smile. “It makes me hungry. Also, I have to towel off the chlorophyll stains.” She grinned at the joke.

“Gross,” said Riley, but there was affection in it.

Dawn flexed her biceps, doing a silly strongman pose. “We could do a contest. See whose boobs float best.”

Chloe turned beet red. “Mine have ballast now.” She gestured, mortified, to the small but obvious dark spot on the fabric near her right nipple. “If I laugh too hard, I might… you know.”

Erin cracked one eyelid, lazy. “Start leaking again?”

Chloe nodded, then bit her lip, embarrassed. “Yeah, but I asked Claire to help later. She made a chart and everything.” She blinked at Dawn, like a puppy waiting for permission. “How are you doing with yours? The, uh, size increase.”

Dawn grinned. “It’s like carrying a sack of kittens around, except they’re attached. Every time I run, I think I might take flight.” She plucked at her suit’s neckline. “But I like it. It feels… right?”

“Girl power,” said Riley, deadpan. “Weaponized.”

Dawn poured another glass of tea, offered it to Chloe, who shook her head, then to Riley, who accepted with a grunt.

She settled back and let the sun bake her, thinking about how weirdly normal this all was now. A year ago, she’d never have believed any of it. Not the boobs, not the bunny ears, not the harem life, and especially not the fact that she’d be able to talk about all of it with zero filter. But that was how it worked: you lived in a crazy world long enough, and even the strange bits started to feel like home.

They lounged for a bit, silence drifting as the sun climbed higher. Riley kept watch. Erin napped. Chloe finally slipped into the pool, moving with surprising grace for someone whose center of gravity was so aggressively altered.

Dawn stretched again, then sat up. “Can I ask you all a serious question?”

Riley cocked an eyebrow. “You’re allowed. I reserve the right to mock your question, though.”

Dawn laughed, but it was nervous at the edges. “It’s about the thing Arabella said at the ceremony. That there’s a special transformation path if you’re ‘committed’ to Andy. I keep thinking about it. Like, what does that even mean? Is it bad if you don’t know yet?”

Chloe swam closer, hair trailing behind her like a golden comet. “Why would it be bad? Some people just… take longer.” She smiled. “I think it’s nice that they give us the option to change our minds.”

Riley sipped the tea, then spat it out. “Ugh. There’s sweetener in this.”

Dawn shrugged. “Sorry. Maybe they’re trying to tell you something.”

Riley rolled her eyes, but it softened her. “For what it’s worth,” she said, “I don’t think it’s a race. I think it’s more about being honest with yourself. The way Erin is. The way Chloe is. The way you are.”

Dawn looked at Erin, who was now fully asleep, mouth slightly open, chest rising and falling in a perfect, serene arc.

Chloe toweled off, wrapped up in a massive beach towel like a burrito. “What would you want, if you had to choose?” she asked, voice quiet.

Dawn didn’t answer right away. Instead, she glanced at her reflection in the sunglasses she’d balanced atop her head, then at the expanse of her own chest, then at the ocean. If she was honest, she didn’t know what she wanted—didn’t know if she even deserved the luxury of wanting, after so many years spent being whatever anyone else needed her to be. But the question hung in the air, big as her new J-cups, and everyone was waiting for her to answer.

“I think…” she started, then faltered. “I think I want to be sure. Like, really sure. That this is what I want, not just what’s left after the world picks me over.”

Riley made a low, “hmm” noise, neither judgment nor agreement, just the sound of someone filing information for later.

Erin had woken up at some point and was now looking at Dawn with a peculiar softness—a kind of empathy she reserved for people she thought might actually need help. “You can take your time, you know,” she said. “There’s no prize for being faster.”

Dawn considered this. She let her hands rest on her stomach, felt the heat of the sun on her skin, the way her tailbone always pressed just a little too hard into the cushion. “Do you think he knows? Andy, I mean. What he wants?”

“Probably not,” said Riley, deadpan. “He’s a man, Dawnie. Half the time they’re lucky to know which day of the week it is.”

This got a laugh from Chloe and Erin.

Dawn wasn’t convinced. “But if I don’t figure it out, someone else will. I feel like I’m running out of time to choose.”

Erin, who rarely missed an opening, rolled onto her side and looked at Dawn directly. “You don’t have to choose now. But you do have to be honest if you want the path.” She let the implication hang. “That’s what Arabella meant, I think.”

Dawn nodded, but it didn’t make her feel better. “Can I ask a weird question?”

“Are any questions normal here?” said Riley.

Dawn hesitated, then went for it. “How did you know? That you were committed, I mean.”

Erin closed her eyes again, but this time she wasn’t sleeping. “You’ll laugh.”

“No, we won’t,” said Chloe, and she meant it.

Erin opened one eye, then the other. “He asked me to marry him, a week ago. On our last date night. I said yes.” She shrugged, as if proposing and accepting a proposal were as mundane as buying toothpaste. “But we’re not telling the others yet. Not officially. With Laura’s return...” She trailed off, unsure.

Dawn felt her jaw drop. Riley’s did, too. Chloe’s eyes went so wide it looked like she’d just learned about Christmas.

“I… wow,” said Dawn. “Congrats?”

Erin shrugged again, but this time there was a smile hiding at the corner of her mouth. “It’s not binding or anything. There’s no ring. Just a promise. But I believed him.”

Riley grinned, showing all her teeth. “You’re going to be the world’s weirdest wife, you know that, right? Do you even want to do the whole thing—domestic bliss, marriage, two-point-five kids?”

Erin thought about it, then nodded. “I do. I never thought about it much, after we broke up. I always figured if it happened, it’d just… happen. But now? I want it. Even the parts I used to roll my eyes at.” She paused, looking at Dawn with something like camaraderie. “You ever want that, Dawnie?”

Dawn’s cheeks burned. “I… maybe. I always thought I’d have to settle, or take care of other people’s kids, or just work until I dropped. The idea that someone could actually want me? It’s new.”

Chloe wrapped herself tighter in the towel. “Does it bother you? That he’s with the rest of us, too? That it’s not just you?”

Erin shook her head, but not in a “no way” kind of way. More like a person who’d practiced the answer enough times to make it real. “It’s not what I pictured. I hated it at first. But I like it now. I like knowing he can love all of us, in different ways. We've all been through a lot together. When we go back, no one else will ever understand, even if no one ever notices the weirdness. Bond or not, we'll be with each other for the rest of our lives. So maybe it’s the only thing that makes sense.”

Riley whistled, low. “You’re all in, then. No turning back.”

“Yeah,” said Erin. “And you?”

Riley looked at the pool, then at her own reflection. For a second she was silent, then she shrugged, like the motion might buy her time. “I don’t know. I used to think if I ever loved again, it would be like a lightning strike—big and stupid and impossible to ignore.” She huffed softly, almost at herself. “Maybe that’s just what movies tell you. Or what I needed to believe back when I thought it would fix everything. But hell if I know,” she added, quick and defensive. “I’m not exactly an expert anymore.”

Chloe reached over and squeezed Riley’s arm. Riley didn’t flinch, which was new.

Dawn felt her own heart speed up. “So if he asked you, what would you say?”

Riley’s mouth twitched like she wanted to turn it into a joke and couldn’t quite find the angle. “I’d say—” she started, then stopped, exhaling through her nose. “Jesus, Dawn.” She glanced at Erin, then Chloe, then back at the pool. “That’s not a fair hypothetical.”

Dawn blinked. “Why not?”

“Because my husband’s been dead seven months,” Riley said, blunt but not sharp. “And my son—” She swallowed once, hard, and her tone went flatter, like laying something fragile on a table. “Two months.”

The air around them changed. Even the water sounded quieter. Dawn suddenly wanted the ground to swallow her. "I'm sorry, Riley, I..."

Riley lifted her shoulders in a half-shrug that didn’t quite work. “I don’t know what I want yet. I know what I don’t want—another lightning strike, another thing that takes everything and then leaves me holding the ashes.”

Chloe’s hand tightened on Riley’s arm.

Riley continued, softer now, almost grudging. “I know I trust Andy. I know being around him doesn’t feel like betrayal. And I know… I like that he remembered Laura with me instead of alone.”

Dawn’s voice was careful. “So… not yes?”

Riley snorted, the joke finally arriving like a shield. “If he asked me today, I’d tell him to go drink some water and lie down.”

Everyone laughed, but it landed gentler this time.

Riley’s smile faded into something honest. “Someday?” she said, looking at the ripples. “Maybe. If I get there. But I’m not going to pretend I’m there just because Arabella dangled a shiny path in front of us.”

She tapped the side of her cup with a finger. “If I ever say yes to anything again, it’s going to be because I chose it. Not because I was afraid of being left behind.”

Dawn felt a little lighter. She stared up at the sky, letting the warmth settle on her bones. “I haven’t thought about the endgame,” she admitted. “What it means after we all go home, or if we even get to go home. But I think I should. Not for the extra path or whatever, but because it wouldn’t be fair—to him, or me—if I didn’t give it a real shot.”

Chloe, ever the empath, said, “You should. You’re worth it, Dawn. You always have been.”

Erin nodded. “Don’t let anyone—least of all Andy—tell you different.”

Riley, as ever, cut through the softness with a grin. “And if you need a reality check, you know where to find us.”

Dawn laughed, and this time it felt less like a cover and more like a celebration. “Thanks, guys. Seriously.”

They fell silent again, but it was the comfortable kind. Chloe slipped back into the pool, floating on her back, arms out and eyes closed. Riley watched her for a long time, then slid into the water herself, barely making a ripple. Erin dozed, her body a perfect, lazy stretch of plant and muscle. Dawn poured another glass of tea, not caring if it was too sweet.

She felt like part of the club.

There was a time, not too long ago, when the Banquet Hall was the only place in the hotel where Marissa could relax. Not unwind, exactly—that was reserved for her jazz club—but relax in the sense that nobody expected her to be anything but present and professional, which came as naturally to Marissa as breathing. This afternoon, the Hall was empty except for her and Claire, who sat across the table, gently stirring sugar into her coffee with the kind of reverence usually reserved for rare manuscripts. The air was cool, the scent of pastries faint, and every so often the clatter from the kitchens echoed, as if Mildred were auditioning percussionists.

Erin had left for the pool nearly half an hour before. Marissa doubted she would see her again until dusk. Now, with just the two of them, the silence felt companionable rather than tense. Marissa sipped her coffee and watched the late morning sunlight stripe the carpet through the enormous windows. Claire, true to form, was already three-quarters of the way through her second cup, her eyes darting between the notebook in her lap and the door to the Main Lobby. Marissa knew better than to interrupt when Claire was deep in thought. Instead, she simply waited, enjoying the quiet.

Claire, for her part, let her spoon trace lazy, recursive spirals through the cooling coffee, head bent over the notebook as if it were the only artifact of meaning in the room. Every now and then, her cat tail would twitch, a gold punctuation to some invisible inner monologue. Marissa sipped her own mug, and tried to predict which way the afternoon would drift next.

It was Claire who noticed, before Marissa did, the three figures in the Main Lobby: Andy and Laura, side-by-side, moving together with a symmetry that would have made any observer look twice. Even from this distance, you could feel the magnetic pull between them—a shifting gravity, impossible to miss even through glass.

Claire tapped her pen on the tabletop and pointed, eyes sharp behind her glasses. They’re back, her look said—not urgent, not alarmed. Just alert.

Marissa watched the two cross the lobby. There was a moment—barely a beat—where Andy paused, hand hovering at Laura’s backs, then gently withdrew. Laura hesitated, then veered slowly towards the guest bedroom corridor. The choreography was so subtle, so mutual, that Marissa felt it like a skipped heartbeat. It felt like watching two people carefully not fall into something.

Marissa felt it as a skipped heartbeat. She thought, distantly, of the mental chart she’d built after the first round: who was stable, who was brittle, what variables might tip someone from coping into collapse. People assumed Marissa catalogued pathology. She didn’t. She watched for stress fractures.

She turned back to Claire. “You saw that, right?”

Claire gave a small, deliberate nod, then flipped her notebook to a fresh page. She wrote in a looping, tidy hand: He looks exhausted. So does she.

Marissa smiled, just a little. “You think we should check in?”

Claire hesitated, then underlined her previous note. Then she wrote: I can feel his worry. It’s like a thrum. He’s probably trying not to be seen with her too much right now. I think he’s worried about how it would land with the others.

Marissa nodded. She knew this, too—how Andy never wanted to be seen as playing favorites, even when the entire edifice of the game was built to reward it. She also knew, from her own private conversations with him before the show, that the return of Laura must have changed something elemental in him. It was as if the air around him was charged, every emotion amplified by the knowledge that this woman was the myth he’d spent his life mourning.

Claire wrote: Emily asked to see him tonight. He promised. I think he needs downtime, too.

Marissa finished her coffee. “Let’s check on Laura,” she said.

Claire’s tail flicked once, approving. She closed her notebook and stood, her movement as quiet and unhurried as the rest of her being.

They walked the length of the lobby together, neither rushing. The air in the hotel was always cool, always scented with faint citrus and the mineral tang of the ocean, but there was something new in the corridor to the guest rooms. A tension, a hum, a sense that the reality here was thinner than everywhere else on the island.

Room 143 was assigned to Erin, Laura, and Claire. Marissa wondered how that arrangement would play out over time: would new wounds surface, or would proximity act as a kind of balm, especially given Laura’s Lethe’s Forgetfulness transformation? She knocked, gentle, waited. When there was no answer, she eased the door open, just enough to see inside.

Both of Laura’s bodies sat on the edge of the bed, knees together, hands laced tight in their laps. Their postures were identical—shoulders hunched, heads bent at the same angle, hair falling in perfect curtains to shield their faces. It didn’t look like harmony. It looked like bracing.

Marissa knocked on the open door. “Hey, Laura,” she said, voice as light as she could make it. “Can we come in?”

Both Lauras looked up at once. The effect was unnerving, but Marissa didn’t show it. She just smiled, and stepped into the room.

Claire followed, then closed the door behind them with a deliberate, catlike grace.

For a few seconds, the four of them (if you counted Laura twice) just existed in the silence. Marissa let her eyes adjust to the strange way the two Lauras mirrored each other. It would have made a perfect Renaissance painting, if anyone on the island had bothered with old media.

She sat on the armchair across from the bed, careful to give Laura plenty of space. “How are you doing?” she asked.

Both Lauras answered at once, their voices in perfect stereo: “Fine.”

Marissa didn’t flinch. “You sure?”

She shrugged, in stereo, and looked at the floor. “It’s weird,” she said, and then both bodies laughed, a sound that was half sob, half hysteria. “I keep thinking I’m going to bump into myself, but then I remember I’m the same person.”

Marissa nodded. “That makes sense. Big neurological adjustment. Your brain’s trying to renegotiate spatial rules. And the first few days of a big change are always the hardest. Others have gone through similar adjustments. Transformations take a couple of days to settle down, or for you to get more used to them. You have to let your brain catch up to your body.”

Laura shrugged again, this time only on one side. “Is it supposed to feel like this?”

Marissa answered honestly. “I don’t know. No one’s done this before. But ‘too much’ usually means you’re pushing yourself to process faster than your system can manage.” She softened her voice. “It’s okay to slow down.”

There was a silence. Claire moved to the window, then sat on the wide ledge, cross-legged, her notebook open on her knee. She wrote, then flipped it to face Laura: You don’t have to be okay all at once.

Laura read it, and for a moment her two faces softened. “Thanks,” she said, a little unevenly.

Marissa let the room breathe, then changed the subject. “Have you had a tour of the hotel yet?” she asked. “I don’t mean the welcome walk-through. I mean the real tour. Places to hide, places to scream, places to feel like a normal person again.”

Laura glanced briefly at Claire, then back at Marissa. The look wasn’t accusatory—more like a quick check, as if measuring whether this was an imposition. Then, both of her selves shook their heads. “No. I was mostly… with Andy. Or in here.”

“Would you like to?” Marissa asked, as casual as possible.

Laura looked at Claire, then at Marissa, then back at Claire. A flicker crossed her face—uncertainty edged with something sharper. “I don’t want to bother anyone,” she said.

Claire wrote: It’s not a bother. I’d like to show you, too.

Laura swallowed, then nodded. “Okay,” she said, both of her.

Marissa stood, stretched her back. “Let’s go then.”

They walked the halls together, an odd parade—Marissa in the lead, two Lauras walking in sync, and Claire at the rear, notebook in hand. Marissa pointed out the gym (“Rarely used, except when Erin gets a burr in her shoe, although you can find Sam or Norah here from time to time”), the spa (“Heated floors, mineral pools, the works”), and the rec room (“Claire set up a Mario Kart tournament last week”). She made a point of introducing each space as if she were a tour guide for a visiting dignitary—equal parts informative and silly, just to keep Laura from folding inward again.

In the Hotel Library, Marissa paused to show off the corner where someone (probably Liesa, from the handwriting) had set up a small lending shelf of erotic poetry. “Some of it’s not terrible,” she said, flipping a volume open. “But if you want the real dirt, go for the French novels. They’re all secretly about Parisian hairdressers having affairs with their landladies.” She grinned. “Or you can borrow a novel or two from my selection. They’re, shall we say, a little spicy.”

Laura smiled at that, both bodies doing the same uncertain, grateful tilt.

When they reached the far end of the hotel, Marissa stopped outside a door painted with the number 88 in gold. She turned to Laura. “This is my place,” she said. “It’s called The 88 Club.”

Laura’s eyebrows shot up, both sets at once. “Like… a piano?”

Marissa nodded. “It’s a copy of a club I used to frequent, back home. Come on.”

She opened the door, gesturing them in. The room beyond was small, dark, and perfect: a stage with a black baby grand, a few club chairs, a scatter of tables with flickering candles. On the walls, old jazz posters and prints, plus a few of Emi’s watercolor landscapes (the only art in the hotel that wasn’t about sex or power).

Laura stopped in the doorway, both bodies frozen, as if her code had glitched. Her eyes—four of them, now—darted around the room, taking in every detail. For a second, she didn’t speak.

Marissa gave her time.

After a while, Laura stepped inside, her movements growing more separate, less mirrored. “It’s beautiful,” she said, voice gone soft and small. “You made this?”

Marissa nodded. “Yes, but it’s less glamorous than it sounds. I paid my BPs and told Arabella what I wanted. She magicked it into existence.”

Laura glanced at her in stereo, as if checking the claim for subtext and deciding—barely—not to pursue it, then went back to look at the club in wonder. Claire found a seat near the wall, perched on the edge of a banquette, and let herself disappear into the background. She wrote, then held up her notebook so Marissa could see: She really likes it.

Marissa smiled, then turned back to Laura. “Do you play?” she asked, nodding at the grand.

Laura hesitated. “I took lessons when I was a kid,” she said, then frowned. “You probably know that. From Andy.”

Marissa shrugged. “I don’t remember everything from our sessions. Besides, I’d rather hear it from you.”

Both Lauras smiled, a little shy. The smile didn’t quite reach their eyes, but it held.

“Would you like to try?” Marissa asked, as gentle as she could. “You don’t have to perform, just… see if it feels good.”

Laura’s faces went blank for a moment, the uncertainty palpable. “I’m not sure if it’ll work. With both of me.”

Marissa nodded. “That’s why it’s an experiment,” she said. “Besides, it might be fun to find out what a duet with yourself sounds like.”

Laura laughed, the first real one Marissa had heard since the day began. “Okay,” she said. “But if I break it, I’m blaming you.”

They crossed to the piano, Marissa making sure to sit a respectful distance away. Claire watched from her seat, silent, but her tail curled in tight, rhythmic anticipation.

Laura settled both bodies onto the bench, side by side. For a moment, she just rested her hands on the keys, letting the weight of the instrument anchor her. Then, with a breath, she started to play.

It was simple—just a scale, run up and down the keyboard with one body while the other shadowed the motion an octave apart. Marissa watched, not with a therapist’s clinical eye, but with the pure, admiring attention of someone witnessing something brand new.

After a few minutes, Laura stopped, both bodies pulling their hands from the keys at the same time. Marissa let the last notes fade before she spoke, careful not to shatter the moment. “You picked it up again fast,” she said, her voice pitched exactly between approval and invitation.

Laura’s twin forms regarded her in perfect unison, as if testing whether the compliment was real, or if it belonged to someone else. Marissa felt the brief spike of that look and let it pass without engaging. The effect was uncanny, but Marissa found herself recalibrating her sense of “normal” every time Laura moved.

“Thank you,” Laura said, pulling her hands back from the keyboard. She flexed her fingers, as if surprised they still obeyed. “It’s different, with two. Like a duet, but only I really know what I’m doing.”

Marissa nodded. “The body will catch up. It’s all neuroplasticity—wiring new highways for old ideas.” She noticed Laura’s hands tremble slightly and softened her tone. “If you want to keep experimenting, we can try something even simpler. Or we can stop, whenever you’d like.”

Laura hesitated, the expressions on her two faces flickering for a heartbeat. “Okay. Maybe just for a minute?”

She placed both sets of hands on the keys and began a slow, halting scale. For a while it was a strange round, the two melodies climbing and falling together, sometimes tangling, always returning to the root note. Marissa watched, entranced—not by the music (which was awkward and a little off), but by the way Laura’s forms played without ever looking at each other, her singular mind directing both.

Claire, silent in her banquette, wrote in her notebook, flipping the page so neither could see. She radiated support, her tail coiled neatly around her ankle, eyes half-closed behind her glasses.

After a minute, Laura’s playing grew bolder. With each body, she brought in the left-hand pattern, then the right, weaving a lattice of sound across the keyboard. She stumbled, then laughed—a real, unscripted laugh—and covered her mouths.

“This is so dumb, but it’s fun,” she said.

Marissa let herself smile. “It’s not dumb. You’re building new skills and new muscle memory—for your mind and your hands.”

Laura paused. “It still feels like cheating.”

“Who’s keeping score?”

Laura searched Marissa’s face for a catch, then shrugged. “Okay. Can I try a song?”

“Of course,” Marissa replied. “Whatever you want.”

Laura thought for a moment, then positioned both sets of hands over the keys. Her brows furrowed with concentration as she deliberately placed one body's fingers on the higher octaves while the other took the lower register. She began "The Sound of Silence," her face tightening with the effort of making each body play its own distinct part. The left Laura stumbled through the opening chords while the right struggled to maintain the melody, her fingers trembling slightly.

"It's like... trying to pat my head and rub my stomach," she muttered, wincing as the notes clashed. Then something shifted—her breathing synchronized between bodies, and the music found its rhythm. The chords strengthened beneath the melody, and when they reached the chorus, both Lauras began to sing under their breath, creating an accidental harmony that made Marissa's skin prickle.

Claire scribbled frantically and held up her notebook: This is so beautiful.

Marissa nodded, barely concealing her satisfaction as the twin voices wove together, soft but unmistakable: "I've come to talk with you again..." Marissa felt a loosening in her chest—not triumph, not awe. Relief, that the room was holding Laura instead of swallowing her.

When the verse ended, Laura stopped abruptly, both bodies slumping forward. "Sorry, that was harder than I expected. Making them do different things… that was exhausting," she whispered, flexing her fingers. "Playing the same thing twice would be so much easier."

"It was lovely," said Marissa. "Your voices blend beautifully together."

Laura's faces went pink. " I didn't mean to sing. It just... happened."

"I'm glad you did," Marissa replied. "It showed what's possible."

Laura's two forms leaned in, forearms touching on the bench. For a moment neither moved, just breathing hard together, recovering from the mental exertion.

Claire, uncharacteristically bold, set her notebook aside and walked over. She reached out, slow and nonthreatening, and rested a hand on each of Laura’s shoulders. No words—just the gesture.

Marissa saw the tears before Laura did. Laura’s eyes blinked rapidly, trying to hold them back. When that failed, one form wiped her face, the twin following a half-beat later.

“I didn’t think it would work,” Laura whispered. “I thought I’d mess it up and… I’d feel like a freak.”

Claire squeezed her shoulders, gentle but firm.

“You’re not a freak,” Marissa said. “You’re adapting. The amount of stress you’ve been under is considerable.” She leaned forward slightly, keeping her tone measured. “Everyone’s under a lot of pressure after the ceremony. The Audience has opinions, expectations. They push. Sometimes harder than is useful.”

Laura nodded once, both bodies, small and contained.

“Andy’s been trying to absorb some of that,” Marissa went on. “Making sure people don’t feel alone with it. It’s… become part of his role here, whether he wants it or not.” She paused, then added, carefully, “You’re not alone here. Some of the others are having a rougher time than they let on.”

Laura’s heads tilted a fraction. Her hands, still resting on the bench, tightened together.

“Emily, for instance,” Marissa said, choosing the name as if it were incidental rather than illustrative. “She’s been feeling cornered by what the Audience seems to want from her. You saw it today. Andy’s been reassuring her, helping her set boundaries.” She exhaled softly. “She asked to talk to him later—tonight, I mean—” She stopped herself, the correction immediate. “At some point. Not… that it matters when.”

There was a brief silence, no longer than a breath. Then Laura let out a sound that could almost pass for a laugh. “He’s good at that,” she said. “Reassuring people.” Both of her selves brushed hair back behind their ears. “It makes sense.”

Claire’s hands were still on Laura’s shoulders, but Laura leaned forward slightly, enough that the contact loosened on its own.

“I think I should go,” Laura said. The words came quickly now, stacked without space between them. “Just for a bit.”

Marissa didn’t contradict her. She stayed seated, voice even. “You don’t have to rush.”

Laura smiled—both of her—but the expression didn’t quite settle. “I know. I just… need some air.”

She stood, thanked them, and stepped down the stage. Both of her headed to the exit, arms wrapped around the waists. Four arms reached for the door; two hands found the handle together. The door opened, then closed softly behind her as she stepped into the corridor.

When the latch clicked, Marissa exhaled. The silence that followed was dense, but not uncomfortable—like a held note finally released.

Claire returned to her seat, flipped to a new page and wrote: I think she’ll be okay.

Marissa nodded, more for herself than for Claire. “I hope so.” She wondered if Laura would retreat to her room, or if the two bodies would wander the grounds together. She hoped Laura would play again. She hoped she’d learn to love the duet. But more than that, she hoped that next time, Laura would stay a little longer.

The Lagoon was at its best when the sun was past the zenith, the light gone syrupy and the water showing off its pure, tropical artifice. Liesa sat half-submerged on the shelf of pale rock near the outflow, letting the current tease her hair and swirl around her legs. The surface was crowded with pinprick shadows of insects and palm fronds, and a little farther out, a fine line of foam marked the place where the tide snuck in.

She liked it here. It was the only place on the island that looked exactly as she imagined it should: wild, curved, and beautiful in a way that was almost indecent. The air was thick with warmth and the constant buzz of life. It was a relief after all the marble and glass and archipelago of manicured spaces that made up the rest of the resort.

Norah appeared on the far side of the Lagoon, a sharp wedge of color against the blurred horizon. She made her way down the path with the careful, measured steps of someone who’d memorized every possible hazard, every root and loose stone. At the shore, she stripped off her linen overshirt (deep blue, of course) and hung it on a palm. Underneath she wore a swimsuit with a severe halter cut that made her boobs look like an engineering problem; it was either designed to intimidate, or she’d picked it up in the dark.

She didn’t hesitate at the water’s edge, but stepped right in, ignoring the gasp of cold. She waded out until the bottom dropped off, then floated, perfectly still, letting only her face break the surface.

Liesa admired the style. When Norah swam, she looked like a torpedo—one of the very few people Liesa had ever met who actually did everything with the minimal amount of wasted motion. She circled once, twice, then let herself drift until she was a few meters from Liesa. Only then did she speak.

“I wondered if you’d come,” Norah said. Her voice was softer than normal, the lagoon’s damp acoustics stealing the acid from it.

Liesa let her head tip back, closing her eyes. “Is the best spot on the island. Unless you prefer to be alone, in which case, am sorry I ruined your plans.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Norah rolled over onto her back, legs churning the water just enough to keep her stable. “I come here to think. Less risk of interruption.”

Liesa grinned, but kept it to herself. “Thinking about strategy, or the sanctuaries?”

“Both,” said Norah, instantly. “But mainly the competition. The others seem preoccupied with Laura’s reentry. I think they’re underestimating the impact.”

Liesa let herself drift closer, lazy as a jellyfish. “She is double,” she said. “Is a lot. But is not the first time a wild thing happened. The rest of us adapt.”

Norah made a little noise, halfway between a snort and a sigh. “It’s not the transformations I’m worried about. It’s the emotional angle. The group’s already fragmented—the real contest isn’t for Andy, it’s for the final wish.”

Liesa dipped a hand in the water, watched the ripples. “Maybe. I do not think Andy will abandon the rest of us for nostalgia. Is what makes him so… appealing, no?”

“Appealing,” Norah repeated, like it was a joke. “You’re not worried about being left out?”

Liesa let the words trail up into the blue, shrugged her shoulders beneath the surface. “No. Am already, how do you say—content with my piece of the pie?”

Norah’s mouth flicked in a smile, just sharp enough to be real. “I think you’re the only one who is.”

This was, Liesa thought, maybe true. The rest of the group swirled around the axis of Andy, some never quite admitting how badly they wanted him. Liesa had no illusions about herself: she wanted Andy, she wanted Sam. But she was not greedy. Or, at least, not only greedy.

Norah went under, then surfaced with a hard exhale, water running down her face in lines. “I just don’t get how you’re so calm about it. I thought you were the romantic.”

“Is easier to be romantic,” said Liesa, “when you do not expect to win.” She laughed, letting herself roll belly-down in the water, sculling lazily. “Besides, am not calm. Am just used to losing before the game starts.”

Norah eyed her. “That’s not what I see.”

“Oh, thank you,” said Liesa, over-dramatic, then giggled. “But is not true. Riley, Marissa, even you—they are the ones who see the angles. I just float.” She let herself drift, the current drawing her toward the rocks at the edge.

Norah watched her, suspicion giving way to curiosity. “So, if you had to bet, who would take it? Not just Andy, I mean—the whole show.”

Liesa propped her elbows on the rock shelf, legs trailing behind. “Sam,” she said, without hesitation. “Is not even close. Andy needs her like a compass, and she always knows what is happening before the rest of us catch up.”

Norah barked a laugh, surprisingly warm. “You’re not wrong. But I think you’re underestimating Emi. People always do.”

“Emi is wild card,” agreed Liesa. “And is beautiful to watch her grow. But she does not want to win, really. She wants the forest, the art, and maybe a little love if it falls into her lap.”

“That’s the trick, though,” Norah said. She treaded water closer, careful not to splash. “Everyone thinks she’s harmless, so they ignore her. That’s why she gets what she wants. No one sees it coming.”

Liesa squinted. “Is that how you do it, too? Pretend to be prickly so nobody notices the heart?”

Norah scowled—an old reflex—but didn’t deny it. “I don’t pretend. I am prickly.”

They both laughed, an easy, breathless sound. The Lagoon had a way of stripping all the weaponry from their voices.

Liesa, emboldened, said: “So, what is it you want, Norah? The wish at the end?”

Norah drifted onto her back, floating beside her. “I don’t even know, anymore. I used to want the money, the job, the status. Now, it all feels… smaller than the rest of it.”

Liesa made a face, acknowledging the sentiment. “The world gets bigger here. But also smaller, yes?”

They both fell quiet, watching the small birds pick insects from the bank, the way the light fractured and mended on the water’s skin.

After a while, Norah said, “You think there’s more rounds left? I mean, beyond the next one. If everyone has to get to 100...”

Liesa considered. “Three, maybe four more. Is logical, yes? Even Laura, even Myra, need a fair shot to catch up.”

Norah was silent, the calculation happening behind her eyes. “So Arabella is planning a long endgame.”

Liesa grinned. “Of course she is. Is her masterpiece. She wants all of us to believe we can win, until the last second.”

Norah made a skeptical sound. “You think it’s that optimistic? That we can all win?”

“No,” said Liesa, “but is more fun if we pretend. Is not so bad, to lose, if you get a beautiful memory, Andy, and a few new friends.”

Norah eyed her, sidelong. “That’s very Belgian of you.”

Liesa cackled. “Is better than being a bore.”

They both floated, bodies nearly touching, sharing the warmth of the water. Liesa felt Norah’s shoulder brush hers and didn’t pull away. After a time, Norah said: “I thought I’d hate all of you. At the start, I mean. I figured you’d be rivals, obstacles. Turns out you’re—” She shrugged, as if embarrassed by the rest.

Liesa smiled, finishing the thought for her: “—better than you expected?”

“Yeah.” Norah let herself drift closer. “Even you.”

Liesa lifted a hand, mock salute. “Is an honor, coming from you.”

Norah snorted, but she was smiling for real now.

Then, changing gears: “So. Are you and Sam, like, official now? Or just convenient roommates?”

Liesa felt her face go hot—a rarity. “Is not a label, I think,” she said, “but I like it. Very much.” She eyed Norah, gauging her for malice.

Norah just grinned. “You know that’s a power move, right? Arabella gave you the hotel version of two weeks’ vacation. You get a bed to yourselves and you get a girl who doesn’t even want Andy. She’s setting you up.”

Liesa laughed, not unkindly. “Maybe. Or maybe she just wants to see if we get bored with each other.” She let her hand drift under the water, lightly grazing Norah’s thigh before pulling away. “But is good, no?”

Norah was quiet, but Liesa saw her nod. “Yeah. It’s good.”

They floated in silence, the only sound the occasional slosh of water and the insects at the edge.

Liesa watched the sky, the sun slipping behind a palm. She felt, for a moment, that everything was possible: the win, the loss, the life after. She didn’t need to choose.

Norah said, “Do you ever think about the end? What happens after?”

Liesa shrugged. “Does it matter? We are here now. The rest is…” She gestured, dismissive. “A bonus.”

Norah watched her, serious. “I used to think that way. But now, the closer I get, the less I want to leave the island. Even if I lose.”

Liesa smiled. “Then you should not lose. You should win, and make a wish to keep all of us together. Or at least, keep the Lagoon.”

Norah snorted, but there was a wistfulness to it. “It’s not the wish that will keep us all together. But you think Andy would go for that?”

Liesa propped her chin on her hand, elbows on the rock, legs stretched behind. “Andy would do anything for us, if we asked. But is not just about him, yes? Is about what we want.”

Norah nodded, thoughtful.

A long silence, this time. The sun was almost gone, the Lagoon growing darker, the air cooler on their skin.

After a while, Norah said, “You ever want to just… quit? Stop competing?”

Liesa shook her head. “No. But I do not mind losing to someone who deserves it. That is the secret.”

Norah considered that, then turned on her side, closer now, their bodies a foot apart.

“Would you be okay if it was me?” she said, voice low.

Liesa smiled, honest and open. “Is already you, sometimes.”

They both laughed, then drifted closer together, letting the water tangle their arms. They didn’t touch, not quite, but the warmth was there, steady as a promise.

Norah said, “You’re a better strategist than you let on.”

Liesa shook her head, sending droplets everywhere. “No, is just the truth. Is always easier to love the enemy, if you are not afraid.”

Norah smiled, letting herself float next to Liesa. “I’m not afraid of you.”

Liesa grinned, teeth white in the last blue light. “Good. Is more fun that way.”

They watched the sky for a long time, until the stars came out, and the insects quieted, and the Lagoon became a single body of dark, gentle water. For a moment, Liesa thought she could see the future—not the win, or the wish, but a long series of summers, each one a little more like this, each one with a group of friends, of family, to share it.

She said, “Should we go back, before it gets cold?”

Norah rolled upright, already wading for the shore. “You go first. I’ll follow.”

Liesa laughed, then stood, the water streaming off her curves in sheets. She stretched, hands high above her head, feeling every inch of herself alive and awake. Norah followed, slow and deliberate, and when she reached the shore she didn’t bother with her towel. She let the air dry her, let the dark claim whatever awkwardness remained.

For a long moment, they stood side by side, not touching, but as close as rivals could be without crossing over into something new.

Then, together, they walked up the bank, two silhouettes against the last orange of the day, neither one willing to admit how much they liked the other’s company. Neither one needing to say it, either.