Page 121 of Under Story

“No,” says Laurel. “I can’t. I don’t know if it’s safe for me to dive.”

Eli retracts his chin in disbelief.

“Do you think I’m faking it?” Laurel asks.

Eli pauses. “I just wonder if you’re…”

“Trying to get out of it? Eli, I’d tell you that!”

A cabin door opens. The actress appears in a state of animation.

“There are cupcakes in the library,” she says.

“Thank you,” says Eli, tightly.

The actress hurries to the stairwell. Eli deflates.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Of course I want you to be safe. Do you think you should go to the hospital?”

“No,” Laurel says. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

She doesn’t tell him what she’s thinking: I have a bad feeling. In bed, the palpitations continue. Laurel kicks off the comforter, hot with anxiety, and tells herself that she’ll feel better in the morning.

The next beat is a gong. She sits up.

A blackout screen covers the porthole, so Laurel finds her shoes with her hands. She slips into the hall, careful not to wake Eli and Silas. As she walks, the Astralis pitches. A wall trades places with the floor. Laurel slams into the railing and stays there, clinging, until the ship rights itself. On the main deck, she passes the bridge, with its door-sized windows, and cringes at the brightness of the austral summer night. The hospital entrance is labeled with a red plus sign.

The ship doctor holds a stethoscope, cold, to her chest. “Any other symptoms? Dizziness? Shortness of breath?”

Laurel shakes her head.

“Palpitations often come along with stress.” The doctor loops the stethoscope around his neck. “Are you stressed?”

“Oh.” Laurel laughs. “A little.”

“You shouldn’t be. You’re on vacation,” he says, wagging a finger. “Though some people go a little sideways the longer we’re at sea. The human body isn’t meant to live on water. Good thing we’ve almost made it to McMurdo. You’ll probably feel better back on land.”

—

In the lounge, curved chairs—upholstered in green velvet and bolted to the floor in case of rough seas—surround circular glass tables. A movie screening takes place on the evening before landfall. Silas writes postcards to Victor and Sabrina, his school friends, while they wait for it to begin.

As Laurel addresses Victor’s postcard, she smells whiskey. The odor transports her. Years ago, after she finished breastfeeding, Laurel celebrated with Maisie at a bar on the Capitol Square. She bought a glass of twenty-five-year-old Laphroaig, the most she’d ever paid for a drink, and they spent the night inventing tasting notes. (“Shearing day!” said Laurel. “Urinal cake!” said Maisie.)

In the antiuniverse, scotch, like coffee, is a rarity. A waiter stops at Laurel and Eli’s table.

“Compliments of Mr. Cooke,” he says. From a tray, he transfers two glasses.

Laurel scans the bar. Harry lifts a drink in greeting, his expression strangely avid. Then he ambles over. She can see that his features had once been handsome, or that they could be, but in their current state, they are difficult to discern. Harry’s face is terribly bloated: his eyes and mouth recede like fingers pressed in dough. Laurel wonders if this was the result of a biohacking procedure. Harry has made no secret of his desire to maintain his empire into childhood. He’s known to inject the plasma of his eighty-eight-year-old father.

“This is too generous,” says Eli, standing. “I don’t think we’ve ever met.”

“And now we will,” Harry says. “You two are celebrities.”

Laurel laughs. “I think you’ve confused us.”

She hasn’t stood. Harry smiles magnanimously, as if to excuse her mistake.

“I read your article on Antarctica’s forests. Fascinating. And you,” he says to Eli. “You were part of the ANITA team.”