Page 5 of One Adult, Please

"I love you too. Kiss Biscuit for me. I'll call you when I find a phone charger."

I hang up. Twenty-two percent now. Four percent spent on hearing my mother's voice. Worth it.

I pull the Wondie hoodie over my head. It smells like new fabric and retail air conditioning and normal life. The sleeves hang past my fingers, and the stabby fork has to be strapped to the outside of the overloaded tote. Mom told me to wear a sweatshirt, so I'm wearing one. Now I need to move.

Craig's security people are going to sweep this plaza eventually.

I head for the walkway that leads toward the fish part. I'm sure WonderSphere has a better name for it, probably something involving dreams or tides or a registered trademark, but there's a whale on the sign and I'm being hunted by polo shirts.

So, fish part.

It's the closest zone to the main plaza so I don't have to cross a lot of open space. Plus, the sign says it has an aquarium and aquariums have big thick walls and small dark rooms. If I'm going to hide from security, I want to hide somewhere with mood lighting and fish.

The walkway curves past another churro cart. Unattended. Warmer still on. Churros sitting in the little metal cradle, golden and sugar-dusted and completely abandoned.

I stop, take two churros, put one in the tote bag, and keep walking because my name is Grace and I've never once lived up to it but I'm inside, supplied, and eating a churro in the apocalypse. I've had worse Thursdays.

The walkway narrows ahead, flanked by fake rock formations and misting machines that are still pumping out a fine cool fog. Beyond that, the aquarium building looms, all curved blue glass and wave-shaped architecture and a big sign with a cartoon whale saying DIVE INTO WONDER!

Behind me, across the plaza, I hear a walkie-talkie crackle. Then footsteps. The kind that belong to people wearing comfortable shoes and lanyards and the focused expression of someone who's been told to find a woman with a fruit-shaped purse.

I shove the rest of the churro in my mouth and walk faster.

The misting machines hit me as I enter the corridor and I slip on the wet tile. My feet go out from under me and I sit down hard on the walkway, tote bag clanking.

I sit there for exactly two seconds.

Then I get up. I wipe the sugar off my chin, hoist the tote bag onto my shoulder, and disappear into the fish part before the authority scooters and their little judgment baskets can round the corner.

Behind me, the speakers chirp one more time: "Wondie says: stay hydrated!"

"I know, Wondie."

Then something knocks from a building behind me.

Slow. Wet.

I look at my stabby fork.

"This is your moment. Don't embarrass me."

3

SOMETHING'S WRONG WITH THE MASCOTS

GRACE

The wet knock comes again behind me.

The stabby fork remains aggressively foam.

We retreat deeper into the fish part. It smells like chlorine and fish sweat. Which is what I expected.

The whole zone is designed to make you feel like you're underwater even though you're very much on land and paying fourteen dollars for a smoothie.

The main corridor splits into three paths ahead of me. Left goes to the splash pad and outdoor exhibits, which is a no. Right goes to the fish tubes, which sounds promising but also sounds like a dead end and I don't love the word "dead" right now. Straight ahead is the Celestial Bay Theater, home of, according to the sign, "Melody's Undersea Adventure: A Musical Journey Beneath the Waves! Showtimes daily at 11, 1, and 4."

It's 3:47. The four o'clock show isn't going to happen.