Page 2 of Our Last Resort

Sabrina paces away from her husband, still in the outfit she wore to dinner, the white satin, the high heels. She’s almostfluorescent in the moonlight, a glowing fish darting across the bottom of an aquarium, the sleek folds of her dress rippling like fins.

William staggers after her. He, too, is still in his dinner clothes, white button-down and a suit, the fabric a little too thick for the desert.

Standing about twenty feet from them, I keep my shoulders hunched, hoping for invisibility.

“I’m sorry,” Sabrina says, in the voice of a woman who has been sorry for a long time—always in vain.

Has anyone else noticed?

How Sabrina keeps herself out of her husband’s reach? How her gaze rises whenever he stands up? How she tracks his movements, no doubt the same way she monitors his moods?

“Oh,” William growls. “Now you’re fucking sorry?”

He snatches at his wife’s arm, misses, stumbles forward.

“Stop lying to me.”

Sabrina raises her palms in front of her.

“I’m sorry,” she says again. “I’m not lying to you. Let’s just go back to the—”

William grabs her young wrists. A phantom pain buzzes through my right side: a pull at my shoulder years ago, my arm hanging limp afterward.

William slurs: “You stupid whore.”

I realize I’m holding my breath.

Get away from her. Leave her the fuck alone.

Sabrina whips around to face her husband.

“I’m not stupid,” she says.

All trace of apology has left her voice. This version of Sabrina is strong, willful, outraged on her own behalf.

William goes still.

“What did you just say?”

“I said, I’m not stu—”

As Sabrina moves to step past her husband, her gaze travels above him.

She spots me.

I think I see her shoulders tense.

She must have assumed they were alone. Our fellow guests are safely tucked in their suites, asleep behind thick stone walls and triple-pane windows.

Within the compound, the Ara has created discrete, hushed bubbles for each set of guests. Our suites are standalone buildings, nestled at the end of individual walkways. Tables in thedining room are distanced, other people’s conversations reduced to a low hum. It’s a trick the hotel has been playing on us: assuring us that we don’t need to concern ourselves with the other guests, that we are safe from one another.

For half a second, Sabrina considers me. Then she gives the faintest shake of the head.

Don’t.

I understand. Back when I was a kid, the mothers grew irate if we called for help. Their voices rose, indignant:What the hell do you think you’re doing?If they were in a hitting mood, theyhit harder. They made sure we regretted looking for a lifeline, every single time.

William follows his wife’s gaze.

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