“It spreads,” Isla adds.
“Someone posted about us?”
“Lots of people,” Zara says. “Everyone’s sharing your story.”
She holds up her phone and starts scrolling.
It’s us—Charlotte and me in New Caledonia. On the dock. Outside the hotel. Being escorted to the car.
She swipes to another video. Different platform. Same footage.
“TikTok. Instagram. Facebook.” She wrinkles her nose. “Facebook’s mostly for old people.”
“Take it off,” I say.
Isla flinches.
“We can’t.”
“Take the video off.”
“We didn’t post it,” Zara says. “We don’t control it.”
I look at Mum.
“Dane.” Her voice softens. “I know this is a lot. But you and Charlotte survived fourteen years out there. People are drawn to that. They want to understand it.”
“They don’t know us.”
“No. But they feel like they?—”
“They don’t.”
No one knows us.
I glance at the phone again, then look away.
The idea of that many people seeing her. Seeing us. Watching something that feels private like it belongs to them.
It doesn’t sit right.
“I don’t want that.”
“I know you don’t.” Mum doesn’t argue. “But you don’t really get a choice. That’s just how social media works now.”
Two days ago, I knew exactly where the edges of my world were.
Now I’m not sure there are any at all.
Zara is still holding the phone up.
“People are saying you’re a heartthrob,” she says, like it’s good news. “You could make a profile and earn money from all this.”
“Zara—” Marcus says.
It’s the first thing he’s said since introducing himself.
I look over and find him watching me.
