Wren

The taxi door opens to salt-thick air. In the pastel lobby under a giant smiling sun, she stands in black, arms crossed, red eyes flat with disdain as a receptionist offers fruit punch she won't touch.

"It smells like coconuts and false happiness."

In the room, she drops her bag, eyeing the turquoise water.

"They've given us a holding cell designed by a hyperactive dolphin."