Page 3 of One Adult, Please

I start walking.

The ground is already plotting against me. I can feel it.

2

WONDIE SAYS HYDRATE

GRACE

WonderSphere is the loneliest place on earth and it's not even trying.

The main plaza stretches out like a postcard after the people got recalled for safety reasons. But here's the thing. The park isn't empty. Not really. There are people in the buildings, behind glass, hunkered down in the restaurants and gift shops like animals in terrariums.

The churro cart is also sitting in full view of every glass-fronted shelter, so I abandon it temporarily.

In the big sit-down restaurant near the fountain, staff are moving around, distributing water bottles, pulling chairs together. Someone in a WonderSphere polo is standing at the door like a bouncer, arms crossed, walkie in hand. Keeping people in. Or keeping something out. Hard to tell from here.

Nobody's on the paths. Nobody's on the rides. The fast mountain in the distance is frozen mid-track with an empty train dangling on the first hill. The carousel is still lit up, horses bobbing gently in the breeze because someone left it in idle mode, and it's rotating with absolutely no one on it, which is the creepiest thing I've seen today.

The speaker system is still cycling. Every three minutes, a smooth prerecorded voice announces that the Celestial Bay Dolphin Experience has been temporarily paused and WonderSphere apologizes for the inconvenience.

I should walk into the burger place or the frozen yogurt stand and join the other terrarium people and sit on the floor and eat fries and wait for someone official to tell me what to do.

I don't because Craig definitely called security and security is definitely checking the buildings and I'm definitely a wanted woman right now. Not wanted in the sexy way. If I walk into one of those buildings, someone in a polo shirt is going to ask me for a ticket I don't have and then I'm going to get escorted back to the parking lot.

No. I need to get deeper into the park, where there are more places to duck into that aren't full of organized, supervised, accounted-for people.

But first, supplies.

The gift shop on the east side of the plaza is unlocked and, more importantly, unstaffed. The lights are on. The kind of music that's designed to make you feel relaxed while spending forty-two dollars on a keychain is playing from a speaker in the ceiling.

I walk in and the anti-theft gates beep at me and my heart launches itself into my throat before I realize it's just a little electronic "welcome" from a machine that doesn't know the world is ending.

"Thank you," I say to the sensor gates.

Okay. What does a WonderSphere gift shop have that constitutes survival supplies?

I grab a tote bag from a rack near the door. It's canvas, turquoise, with Wondie the Sphere wearing sunglasses and giving a thumbs up and the words WONDER NEVER STOPS printed underneath in a font that's trying very hard. This is my survival bag now. Wondie is my copilot, which feels legally troubling but emotionally correct.

I move through the aisles with the efficiency of a woman who's never been efficient at anything but is highly motivated by fear and churros.

Snacks: a rack of trail mix bags, a display of chocolate-covered pretzels, two sleeves of shortbread cookies shaped like dolphins, a bag of gummy sharks.

Water: a cooler near the register with overpriced bottles. I take four. I don't feel great about not paying but I also don't feel great about dehydrating to death in a theme park so we'll call it a moral wash.

Poncho: they have rain ponchos in little plastic pouches near the sunscreen. I take two. One for wearing, one for... I don't know. Emergency tarp. Surrender flag. The options are wide open.

Glow sticks: a bucket of them near the toy section. I grab a handful and shove them in the tote because if the power goes out I refuse to be in the dark. I'll be in a neon green glow and I'll be visible from space and I don't care.

Foam stabby fork: this one is from the Celestial Bay merchandise section. It's got a price tag of twenty-eight dollars which is criminal for a piece of foam on a plastic stick but it's the closest thing to a weapon in this store and I'm taking it. It has glitter in the handle. I'm not going to think about that.

I'm standing in the apparel section loading a sweatshirt into my bag when I realize I should call my mom.

I pull out my phone. Twenty-six percent. I need to be strategic about this but also she's probably watching the news and if I don't call her she's going to assume I'm dead and then she's going to post something premature on Facebook and I'll be a memorial before I've even missed a meal.

She picks up on the first ring. "Grace Marie."

Full name. She's been watching the news.