Page 44 of A Perfect Disaster

“We’re going to stay here until the medical team finishes evacuating Mr. Ernesto. No one move from your spot unless told to do so. The passenger is in good hands, and as soon as they clear the way, we’ll all leave together.”

“But… will we miss the bus back to the port?” someone asks with understandable concern. If the ship sets sail, staying in Rome is a nightmare that could cost thousands of euros.

I smile, though I’m not quite sure how.

“We’re an official ship excursion; no one is going to be left behind, I guarantee it. We’ll figure this out. The important thing right now is that Mr. Ernesto gets the care he needs.”

The man’s daughter looks at me with tears in her eyes.

“I’m so sorry, really. We’re ruining everyone’s excursion.”

I shake my head and give her arm a gentle pat.

“You have nothing to feel bad about,” I tell her, squeezing her hand afterward. “That’s why we’re here.”

And I mean it. Working on board isn’t just about sticking to schedules and smiling in the lounge when everything is going smoothly. It’s also about supporting people when something goes wrong in the middle of a foreign country. I know that. I believe it, and I stand by it with conviction. But my phone still has no signal. And Helen doesn’t know anything. She must be thinking the worst of me.

The minutes turn into a dense, sticky mass. Some passengers sit on the steps when they’re allowed to. Others murmur among themselves. A woman prays under her breath. Nico, who’s managed to get back by my side, helps me keep the group calm, handing out water when the staff authorizes it and making sure no one else suffers from heatstroke.

I check my phone screen every thirty seconds.

“Maika,” Nico says, coming closer, “this isn’t your fault. It was beyond your control.”

I look at him. Poor Nico. So young and so optimistic. He still doesn’t know how the bigwigs operate.

“When Helen rips my head off and sends me home at the next port, remind her of that,” I reply sarcastically.

“I’m sure she won’t,” he instinctively tries to reassure me.

“You don’t know Helen when things go off script.”

We’ve spent about half an hour stuck on the Vatican staircase and another forty-five minutes filling out the official incident report. Almost two hours imagining Helen staring at the terminal clock, clenching her jaw, and thinking exactly that I’ve proven once again that I’m irresponsible.

When we’re told that Don Ernesto is now stable and in the ambulance on the way to the hospital, the news gives me some breathing room. But not enough, because as soon as we step outside, Rome hits us with all its noise, heat, and chaos. St. Peter’s Square stretches out before us, immense, dazzling, teeming with tourists, tour guides, and flags. My phone suddenly regains a signal and starts vibrating as if seeking revenge for this endless silence.

I have dozens of messages and missed calls. From Leo, from the Excursions desk, from the ship’s switchboard. And from Helen. Lots from Helen.

I swallow hard.

“Okay, team,” I announce to the group, swallowing my nerves. “Let’s head together to the bus meeting point. We have to stay together. Nico, bring up the rear and make sure no one gets left behind.”

“Got it,” he replies firmly.

We push through the crowd as fast as we can. But Rome, when it decides to work against you, does so with true artistry. Because ahead of us lies a blocked street, an impossible flow of tourists, and traffic lights that seem to stay red forever. Every passing minute turns into a stumbling block that knocks me off balance and shatters all my optimism.

And the final blow comes when we reach the parking area—the lot is empty.

“Where are the buses?” a little girl asks behind me.

I look into the distance and make out the license plates of our coaches driving away down the main avenue. For a second, my brain refuses to process the image. But that’s exactly what’s happening. I check my phone and read that the drivers had to leave the loading zone due to restrictions imposed by the Rome police. They can’t just sit there blocking St. Peter’s.

“Shit, damn it!” Okay, okay, I have to think.

We’re stuck in the middle of Rome. Twenty-four passengers, Nico, and me. Running out of time before the ship has to close the gangways in Civitavecchia without incidents, delays, or astronomical fines.

“Oh, my God. What do we do now?”

Panic spreads like wildfire among the passengers.