Page 9 of Natural Selection

“Packing,” Dolores says. She looks at Sophia, but her eyes are like empty black holes. “He’s flying home.”

The group, minus Arn, climb into the panga. When Luis Antonio sees Sophia, he beams. “La reina,” he says. Sophia googled “la reina” earlier; it means “the queen.”

“Buenas días,” Sophia says.

Luis Antonio nods toward shore. “Mi familia,” he says. “Mi esposa y tres hijos.”

“Your family is here?” Sophia says.

“Sí,” he says. He drops them off at the dock, then heads back to the boat—to pick up Arn, she supposes. She’s glad Arn didn’t climb onto the panga with his suitcase and his resentment; she’s glad there won’t be any supremely awkward goodbye scene, because what would they say? Bye-bye, Arn, sorry to see you go?

Sophia walks alongside Dolores as the group strolls to the park where scientists raise and breed tortoises in captivity. The tortoises are huge, slow creatures, their shells broad and heavy enough to support a sitting child. Sophia reads a placard about Lonesome George, the one-hundred-year-old Pinta tortoise, the last of his kind, who died in 2012. In the picture, he looks like a bald old man with a crepey neck.

Dolores appears next to Sophia. “I feel like Lonesome George,” she says.

Yeah, me too, Sophia thinks.

Their shared gloom is interrupted by Tucker. “Ladies, come see!” He and the rest of the group are watching two land tortoises mate. The female lies still, and the male crashes into her from behind. Their shells collide like bumper cars.

That night, Sophia puts on a short black jersey dress and sparkly sandals and heads to the Bongo Bar with DeAndre and Grant, Tucker and Kelly. Three rum punches later, Sophia is on the dance floor; there’s a DJ playing Drake and Beyoncé, then an unexpected mix of old-school disco and country music. During Morgan Wallen’s “You Proof,” DeAndre pulls Sophia to the bar, saying they need tequila shots. He and Sophia throw them back, then DeAndre pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “I’m going to sneak one—Grant will kill me if he sees. Want to come?”

“Obviously,” Sophia says.

They walk outside to a little garden patio and sit down at a table, where DeAndre lights a cigarette for both of them. “Bad habit,” he says. “Smoking while shitfaced.”

Sophia’s head spins with her first drag. “I need to tell you some things,” she says. “First of all, I’m not married. JP and I have been dating for six months. We’re pretty serious; we’re ‘in love.’” She uses air quotes with the cigarette between her fingers. “He planned this trip, though he’s not a photographer. Or rather, he is, but he doesn’t have a magazine assignment—I made that up. When we were about to get on the flight to San Cristóbal, the airline told him he had a phone call. It was someone from home—his ex-wife I think—saying that there was an incident with his younger son, Briar. Briar has been to rehab for drugs, and I guess he had a relapse—so JP left.”

“Ouch,” DeAndre says. “Is everything okay?”

“I haven’t heard from him since,” Sophia says. “He hasn’t texted or emailed or called or anything. And when I texted him, it was a green text instead of blue, so I’m not sure what’s going on.”

“Did he block you?” DeAndre asks.

This hasn’t occurred to Sophia. “Why would he block me?”

“Let me text him,” DeAndre says.

Sophia hesitates. “What would you say?”

“That you’re having trouble getting ahold of him, and could he let you know he’s okay. I’ll tell him I’m another passenger on the boat.”

Should they do this? Sophia is just drunk enough to think, What the hell? Maybe another man texting will make JP jealous.

“Okay,” Sophia says. “Let me do it.” She takes DeAndre’s phone, types in JP’s number, and writes: Hi JP. This is DeAndre, I’m a passenger on the Dorado with Sophia. Her texts don’t seem to be going through and she asked me to check to make sure everything is okay there. You can reach me here or contact her directly. Thanks. She hits send, then gasps. The text is blue.

The next morning, Sophia wakes up with a pounding headache. She thinks about the shot of tequila and the cigarette and nearly runs for the bathroom, but she can’t imagine the horror of vomiting into the chemical toilet. Deep breath, she thinks. She hears voices outside her door; the others are heading up to breakfast. Sophia should brush her teeth, do her Warrior 3 pose, then join them, but even that simple routine feels beyond her today. She gropes for her phone: she has three text messages.

The first is from Pierce: a picture out his apartment window, more snow.

The second text is from Emmeline: Ariadne had her first ultrasound, it says. She’s having twins.

Twins, Sophia thinks. Their mother is probably already planning the shower, which means Sophia needs to start planning a way to get out of it. Then she asks herself: What kind of wretched soul schemes to miss her little sister’s baby shower?

The third text is from Ariadne: it’s the sonogram picture. Two tiny peanuts curled together in their little shell.

There’s nothing from JP. Really? she thinks. Even after he received the text from DeAndre?

At that second, there’s a knock on her door. “Yes?” she says, sitting up in her bunk.

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