Then, three hours later:
NICK:Boarding confirmed.
And finally, when my flight pushed back from the gate:
NICK:Text when wheels down.
A command pretending to be a request.
By the time I landed in Florida, my passport had been checked by three governments, my luggage had been inspected twice, and my nervous system had developed a formal objection to any sound resembling a hotel lock, keycard reader, or cheerful airline chime.
Growth was lovely.
Florida hit me with the humidity of a damp wool blanket and the smell of human optimism, a combination that felt offensively loud after the dry, dignified silence of the bush. South Africa had been dry sun, dust, canvas, thorn, air that carried distance. Florida pressed close with jet fuel, brackish water, sunscreen, hot pavement, and the sunny audacity of people who believed the day was going to behave.
Home should have felt softer.
Instead, the curb outside arrivals looked too bright, too flat, too full of people moving casually through a world that had not recently tried to kill me.
A compact SUV pulled up beside me. The driver’s window rolled down.
Daisy leaned across the console, sunglasses on, Wilder Horizons badge still clipped to her blouse. “Please tell me you’re Juliette Wilder. I was told to retrieve a CEO, but I’m willing to accept a dramatic international fugitive if the paperwork is manageable.”
My face attempted humor without permission. The result was small, rusty, and apparently still functional.
I opened the passenger door. “That depends. Did you bring coffee?”
She lifted a paper cup from the holder. “Large. Black. Aggressively hot. Also a protein bar and a small emotional-support reptile.”
I looked at the tiny gift bag on the seat.
Inside sat a stuffed alligator wearing a khaki safari hat.
Daisy cleared her throat. “I ordered him before the revised travel schedule, for the record. The hat felt thematically insensitive after the security incident, but by then he had shipped.”
I stared at the alligator.
The alligator stared back, prepared for absolutely nothing.
“He has leadership potential,” I said, poking the alligator’s khaki hat. “Though his situational awareness is abysmal.”
“I thought so.”
I slid into the seat and accepted the coffee. “Please tell me you didn’t name him.”
“Ranger Wilder.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Too late. His badge is implied.”
The laugh that came out of me was too small and a little scraped at the edges. Daisy pretended not to notice, which elevated her from promising intern to national treasure.
Traffic moved in uneven bursts toward the airport exit. Palm fronds bent under a lazy breeze. A shuttle bus sighed besideus. Everything hummed, beeped, rolled, flashed. Too many engines. Not enough wings in the dark. Not enough insect pulse or generator hum or distant animal warning. No radio cutting through canvas. No clipped British voice issuing orders my nervous system had apparently decided to find soothing.
My body had learned the reserve’s rhythm faster than I wanted to admit.
Rude.
