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"Oh, yeah?" Dan muttered.

The dude lit up like a Christmas tree, like no other human had ever followed a statement of his with an oh, yeah?

"Yeah, man. We were in Cali for a couple weeks two summers ago visiting my cousin, and I thought, like, Okay, I'm just gonna let this thing go because I'm in Cali, right?" He slapped Dan's leg and Dan hated him. "And so, I'm like, looking in the mirror, thinking, Okay, this thing's looking pretty good, fuller than I thought. And so I just went with it, man. And what you see before you today is after two years. The ladies love it. Don't you love it, babe? You should go for it, dude."

Dan's wandering eyes settled on the guy's tank top. There was a silhouette of a beard in the middle and it said, With Great Beard Comes Great Responsibility, and Dan wondered if it was possible for eyes to roll 360 degrees, just back and around and back up again like cherries in a slot machine.

Dan asked, "Would I have to wear stupid fucking shirts if I did?" and Mara's nails pierced his skin, and the guy mumbled something and spun back around, like, what an asshole, but at least it ended the interaction.

Dan hated guys whose whole personality was having a stupid beard.

Mara whispered, "Real nice, Danny," and she sounded actually annoyed, not playfully annoyed, but now there was music playing from the stage—was that Stone Temple Pilots?—and the crowd took a communal gasp of air like they were being dunked in the ocean.

A tall skinny man resembling a cornstalk appeared onstage, just ambled out there like one of the brooms in Fantasia, and the music stopped abruptly. He was in his midtwenties, probably, or maybe a bit younger, and he swayed like three children stacked on top of each other, like something masquerading as a man but definitely not really a man at all. And he had a man bun, Jesus, like that settled it. My bun is a man, see, so that means I am too.

But he wasn't.

There was some feedback on the mic, which made him wince, but eventually he spoke. "Good evening," he said, but it wasn't either of those things. His voice cracked. "I-I-I'm Brody Sheridan, owner, general manager, and CPO at Tizoc Grand Islands Resort and Spa. CPO stands for chief party officer."

Dan deflated. This is the guy in charge?

"And, well, I guess first of all, I want to thank everyone for joining us for the grand opening here at Tizoc. Isn't this place beautiful?" He raised his hand for applause but only heard from confused cicadas. Brody cleared his throat. "Hard to believe, but when I bought this island four years ago, there wasn't anything on it. Well, besides the old airstrip and the observatory."

Dan glanced at Mara. Observatory? Mara pulled the resort map from her shorts pocket. It wasn't listed. Dan studied the map more closely, hoping that maybe he missed some emergency exits. There were four large buildings on the island, each creatively named, surrounding a massive courtyard and pool deck. Building A, designed for the hoity-toity, had the best location on the island. Beachfront, steps away from the sand. Building B had views of the gardens, which were okay, and Building C, to the north, was like an hourly motel in a parking lot riddled with hypodermic needles. Okay, there weren't really needles, but Building C was near the lot where they kept golf carts, Jeeps, and buses. Think third class on the Titanic without the fiddles. The Main Building, which housed the ballroom, gym, spa, and other shared amenities, was straddled between B and C.

Brody rubbed his arm and continued. "And I think, ah, that we can all agree that everyone was having a really tight time up until, well, this afternoon. No cap. Like, I saw you guys lookin' pretty chill, really vibin' with the place, and then. You know. Womp, womp." The crowd shifted. He was losing them.

A man a few rows up stood. He was wearing long shorts and an AC/DC shirt—definitely a Building C guest. "Tell us what the fuck happened!"

There were calls of agreement. Another man near the stage shouted something and pointed aggressively, someone somewhere shrieked about flights home. Brody trembled. He looked offstage at somebody, like, help me out, here, then slowly returned the mic to his mouth and gulped.

"So. Okay. Uh. We think the sun is actually gone."

It was the crowd's turn to explode. Asses shot from seats, the pointing became pointier, several guests dragged their partners toward the exit like they could stomp their way across the Atlantic. The cries became more desperate.

"You have to get us off this island!"

"We have children!"

"Why can't we connect to the internet?"

"We'll freeze to death!"

Mara squeezed Dan's fingers so tight that they almost snapped like pencils. His chest tightened. He'd seen the sun explode with his own eyes—why'd it take this asshole's confirmation to make it feel real?