Page 38 of Cabin Fever

“Right here.”

“Kay.” Her eyes are already closing, and my sister goes out like a pulled plug. Ten seconds, maybe less. Her breathing stretches long and even, one hand still curled loosely on the sheets where my wrist used to be.

Finn nods toward the bathroom, mouths two minutes, and slips in to change. Which leaves me staring at the other half of our room.

One twin bed. One Finn. One me.

Then I remember the bunk. These rooms fit four people, right? There's a handle folded into the wall above my bed.

I climb onto the edge of the mattress next to Dahlia's feet and examine the latch, then try to pull it out. When it doesn’t want to budge, I notice there’s a triangular socket thing that likely requires a key.

I climb down and ease the stateroom door open, scanning the hallway in both directions.

Empty. Not a steward in sight, because it's the middle of the night.

I could call guest services and make some poor soul bring a bunk key, but then I think about bringing in a staff member while Dahlia’s sleeping, flicking on the lights, and the sound of the bunk dropping open.

Fine. Floor it is.

I start scrounging. The spare blanket from the closet shelf. My backpack as a pillow-ish object. The life jackets are technically cushioned, and I’m eyeballing the under-bed clearance when someone knocks, and my heart stops. If that’s Theo, I’m not going to be responsible for what I say to him. Or do to his face.

I open the door to a room-service guy holding a covered plate. “Grilled cheese?” he whispers.

“Yes, thank you.” I tip him with a few dollars Finn has sitting on the desk. I’ll pay him back later. “Uh—” I stop him after he hands me the plate and retreats. “Do you happen to have a key to lower the bunks?”

He smiles at me blankly. Doesn’t speak English, or I’m possibly not speaking it.

“Okay. Right, thank you.”

He nods and continues on his path. I close the door and stand there in the lamplight holding a warm silver dome like the world's saddest trophy. And that's the tableau Finn sees when he walks out of the bathroom. Dahlia unconscious in my bed, me holding his literal silver platter, and a nest of life jackets and beach towels on the floor.

He takes it in, his eyes stopping on the collection of objects between our beds. “Absolutely not.”

“It's fine. I've slept in worse.”

“If you talk about that yurt again⁠—“

“Finn, it’s your bed.”

He takes the platter and sets it on the desk, lifts the dome, and the smell of butter and cheese fills the cabin. He picks up half the sandwich, hands it to me, then sits on the edge of his bed, nodding at the spot beside him.

We eat. And I can’t help but think that Carey Grant would’ve made this moment better.

“Do you think he’s okay?” I murmur. “Theo?”

Finn shrugs. “I texted him. Hasn’t responded.”

“She loves him,” I whisper. I know my sister. She’s going to forgive him, but I’m not sure if I think it’s the right thing to do.

“Do you think she should marry him?” Finn asks.

“Not really my say.”

“But you have thoughts.”

I take a bite and chew. “I always have thoughts.”

Finn huffs a breath, then taps the last quarter of his grilled cheese on the plate. “We can’t fix this for them.”