Darting my eyes over to where Jack's preparing for surgery, I see he's sufficiently preoccupied, so I lean down close to Ben and lower my voice to barely a whisper. "You know. . . there are easier ways to get my attention."

"Ha. Ha. Ha," he wheezes, wincing at the effort it takes to talk. "I specifically asked for you not to be here."

"But I live here," I joke, trying to put him at ease. I can't imagine how he must be feeling, having been shipped all the way to Hydra less than an hour after his injury. "You're technically trespassing on my island, but I'll allow it because we have a better surgery station."

Ben lies limp on the operating table, his usually expressive eyes now dulled with exhaustion. "Why are you torturing me?"

"Torturing you?" Why wouldn't he want me here? The plan is to have Jack put his spinal column back together, and then I heal him. "Pretty sure healing is the antithesis to torture."

"Cora," Ben begins, but he has to pause to catch his breath. It's a struggle for him just to breathe, so I kneel down until our faces are level so he doesn't have to raise his voice. "People have been—" Wheeze. "—healing with abnormal haste—" Wheeze. "—since you've returned."

Is he unaware I already know this? I saw Erik walking around the Temple unassisted only two weeks after I shattered all the bones in his arm and legs. And right before young Peter and little Darcy were cleared to leave on the sub, Peter's ankle had healed without any signs it had been broken in the first place. Gail told me that people tend to heal quicker on the island than off the island, but now that I'm here, my proximity seems to have significantly sped up the process.

"You're asking me not to directly heal you. I'm still indirectly healing you, so either way, you—"

"Please, be serious—" Wheeze. "I am asking you not to heal me."

There's a glimmer of sadness in his eyes that wipes the disingenuous smirk off my face. This means something to him. I don't know why—pride, perhaps?—but healing on his own is more important to him than he has breath to fully describe right now.

"Hey," I whisper. "Okay. I won't. I promise."

"You're just going to—"

"No, I'm not just going to wait until they put you under anesthesia and then do it anyway." I reach up and gently hook my pinky in his. "I swear on my grandmother's soul."

At this, he lets out a breathy sigh and closes his eyes. "Am I going to die?"

"You got trampled by an angry rhinoceros." Despite my attempts to be serious, I'm bursting with nervous adrenaline and cannot help but snort a laugh at the ridiculousness of this situation. "I'm surprised you're not already dead."

"Am I—" Ben pauses, but I can't tell if it's because he's more tired or terrified. "Am I going to walk again?"

You haven't taught me how to swim yet, and that's apparently a canon event. . . so, yes. "You're going to be fine. I don't know how long it will take, but yes. You'll walk again."

"Can you call—" Wheeze. "Alex in?"

"That's really not a good idea." My eyes flit up to the glass observatory overlooking this operating room. Alex is leaning against the glass, sobbing uncontrollably, surrounded by Annie's daughters who mouth comforting words I cannot hear. "She's completely inconsolable at the moment." Ben tries to protest, but I cut him off with a steady, "Whatever it is you need to tell Alex, you can tell her after the surgery. You're not going to die. Goddess of foresight, remember?"

"Cora," Jack calls from down the hallway with all of Ben's x-rays fixed to the walls. "Are you ready?"

At the questioning look in Ben's eyes, I promise, "I'm just hanging around in case anything actually life threatening happens. I promised Alex I wouldn't let you die, and in my defense, I make that promise to her before I made my promise to you."

"I don't know why I bother." Ben sits idly by in a wheelchair as Alex helps carry my bags into her room. "When I said your proximity speeds up healing, I wasn't suggesting you move in."

"You should have thought of that as part of our agreement before the surgery. Oops," I mock and follow Alex down the hall.

"This is awesome!" Alex is so excited she's practically bouncing like a kangaroo. "Infinite sleepover!"

I finish unpacking and listen as Alex excitedly rambles on and on about all the things she wants to do together while I'm living here, even though we've technically been living next to each other on Hydra this whole time. Smiling and nodding along with everything she says, I realize rather quickly that I'm actually excited to have a sleepover. As pathetic as it may sound, this is my chance to experience the sleepover I never had as a kid, and I eagerly add to her list of planned activities.

Alex quickly looks at the door to make sure Ben hasn't wheeled himself down the hallway. She ends up lowering her voice anyway, even though the coast is clear. "Has Indiana's mother come to talk to you yet?"

I let out an exaggerated gust of air. "Yeah. What a mess." Alex's eyes widen in anticipation, so I give her the gist of the conversation. "She basically offered herself as a human sacrifice. I asked her if it made any sense to kill the primary caregiver to the child my husband almost died protecting." Alex laughs at my annoyed expression. "Everyone wants to be a human sacrifice these days."

"I'm just glad everyone's alive," Alex agrees. "It sucks dad got the brunt of a rhino horn, but at least Indiana didn't get trampled. You ever figure out what happened? I didn't see it, but I heard Zeus just went nuts."

"Zeus isn't speaking to me or anyone else right now. Best to let him settle down for a few more days. So. . ." I begin looking around the room, spotting the shoebox Noodles and Jellybean are napping in, until my eyes settle on a Slipknot poster. "Do your friends know you're hiding N*SYNC and Backstreet Boys cds under your floorboards, or am I part of the lucky few?" I watch about a dozen shades of confusion flash across Alex's face before I say, "I have x-ray eyes."

"You didn't tell them, right?" Alex leans forward, looking distressed. "You can't say anything!"

"Whoa, whoa, I haven't told a soul." I expected the both of us to have a great laugh about hiding her love of bubblegum pop and boy bands from her "hardcore" friends. I didn't expect her to look on the verge of tears at the thought of them knowing. I make myself comfortable on the edge of her bed and nod for her to continue. "There's a story here. Start talking."

"It's silly." Alex looks over longingly at one of the posters on her wall, and I sense there's a lot more to this than I originally thought. "So it kinda started back when I was ten. Tom gave me a video he burned of this really great show called Friends—"

"Oh my God, I love Friends!" I do not love Friends.

Alex's anxious worry seems to settle a little. "Yeah," she says, smiling, "me too."

"So Tom gives you a video of the show, and then—?"

"And it. . . I don't know. It kinda became Hazel's obsession to move to New York City. Like, she was obsessed obsessed. When she visited me, she'd spend the entire time planning where we would live and what we would do for jobs. At first it was kinda fun to imagine, but. . ." Alex pauses, thinking. "I guess I grew out of the fantasy, and she didn't."

I nod. "And then her father died, and you didn't feel comfortable bringing it up?"

"Exactly," Alex says in emphasis. "And her opinions cover everything Norse. Annie sews Hazel a dress, so we exclusively wear jeans. Annie wants her to have long hair, so we cut ours short."

Remembering about my initial negative reaction to the shaved side of her head, I interrupt with an excited, "But yours looks so good!"

"Thanks." Alex's eyes soften a little, but it's obvious no amount of compliments can stop her long list of complaints. "The only music we're allowed to listen to is loud and angry. I'm so tired of rebelling. Like. . . I understand I made a pact with her when we were kids, but we were kids. And it feels like everything has stayed the same for Hazel, but everything's changing for me. For example," Alex says, throwing up a hand, "dating. Maybe I do want to date. I don't know! But to completely shut down the conversation because she wants to stay single forever isn't fair."

Do not make a weird face. Am I squinting? Ease up. There. Definitely a normal expression. "Who? Who do you want to date?" In an attempt to sound less suspicious, I dramatically toss my notebook over my shoulder and say, "Completely off the record, of course."

Alex laughs, but not in a nervous way. "I mean. . . I don't have anyone in mind, it's just the fact that it's against Hazel's rules. There were so many times I should have said something, and now it's gotten completely out of control."

"What do you mean?"

Alex checks to make sure her father isn't in the doorway before whispering, "Hazel's trying to figure out a way off the island. She hates it here and doesn't want to get married or have children, so she's. . ." She pauses again, checks the doorway, and then lowers her voice even more. "You have to swear you won't tell anyone. Please, Cora. You have to swear."

I feel my clammy hands start to sweat even more. "I swear." God, I hope this secret isn't something I'll have to tell Annie about for Hazel's own safety.

Alex searches my eyes for a moment longer. Satisfied, she explains, "Hazel stole a seiðr manual from the archives and is trying to figure out how to use it to leave the island."

"Seiðr?" Every muscle in my face fights the urge to twitch with relieved laughter. "Magic? You're talking about magic?"

Alex nods, wide eyed.

"Alex, magic isn't real."

Instead of looking mad, Alex just looks confused. "Of course it's real."

I can tell I'm treading on dangerous territory here, so I try to be as gentle as possible. "How long has she had the book?"

"Two years."

"And in those two years, have any of you successfully casted a spell?" Alex shakes her head no. "Ever wonder why that is?"

Alex shrugs. "We're probably doing the spell wrong."

"Why is this such a carefully guarded secret?"

I watch as Alex chews her bottom lip in thought, finally answering, "Seiðr is illegal."

"Illegal?" I sit up straight at this news. "Why?"

"All I know is Gail burned all the spell books in the archives. Except for the one Hazel found, obviously."

I make a mental note to ask Gail about it in a way that won't incriminate the girls. For now, I decide to leave it alone, rather than risk pissing off Alex and losing a valuable source of intel. Instead, I turn the conversation towards regular island shenanigans.

Alex is in the middle of telling me a funny story about the last time one of Freya's cats stole Annie's favorite wool socks when a deep rumble of men's laughter echoes down the hallway. Alex and I sit up straight, our heads swiveling towards her door in unison as the laughter builds up again.

Unable to mind my own business, I head down the hall and into the expanse between the kitchen and the living room. A group of rowdy men sit all across the living room sofa, some standing near Ben's desk, and one of them sitting cross-legged on top of the kitchen table.

Table?

"Your table," I say aloud, and all of the men turn to look at me. Smiling widely, I say the first thing that comes to mind. "I don't remember your table being so beautiful. Look at these carvings!"

"Yeah," Alex answers, walking up behind me, "didn't you hear? I guess our old one got infested with termites and just kinda. . . fell apart. Rune's family made us a new one."

"If this one doesn't break it under the weight of his giant ego," Ben quips, pointing at the man sitting cross-legged on top of the table.

The men give me a cheerful hello, but they give an even more enthusiastic hello to Alex, who quickly makes her way around the room to greet each of them. I can already tell who they are before Ben officially introduces me to the father's of every player on team Bear.

I've already met Kyle. I've also met Andor's dad, Eomir, who waves at me from the couch. Finn's father is the man sitting cross-legged on the table, but he jumps off and hurries over to kiss my hand. It's so interesting to see them all together because they act just like their sons. I can tell which boy belongs to who, especially Karl's dad, who looks like a wall street accountant playing dress up. He doesn't even have a beard.

I regret coming out here almost immediately after I'm introduced to them all. There's no true silence because the men are always finding something to laugh about, but there's enough of a silence for me to feel responsible for filling it.

What do I do now? I decide to tell a joke. "Hey, guys! Wanna hear a joke?"

"Is it about the size of my hands?"

"No, it's about a bee. He's at a work event and searching for—"

"Eomir's allergic to bees! Remember that time you almost died?"

"Because you pushed me into that hive, asshole!"

Kyle throws his head back and rumbles with laughter, and I am once again forgotten. Which is all well and good, as far as I'm concerned. I wait for the men to turn their attention back on each other, and then I slip back down the hall before they can stop me.

As the men continue to joke around loudly, Alex and I hole up in her room, blasting CDs in her portable player. Hidden out of sight, she has a collection of classics including Spice Girls, Britney Spears, N*SYNC, Backstreet Boys, and Hanson. We sing off key, paint our nails, and gossip about who would make a good husband for her.

"Aw, man," Alex holds up her glass and clinks the ice around the empty space. "I'm all out of lemonade."

"Stay put," I offer and hop up off the floor. "I'll get it."

I find Ben seated near his desk, staring off into space. I clear my throat and ask, "Are they gone?"

"Well," he starts, sounding genuinely put out, "as far as I know, they're not all crammed inside the only bathroom in the house, so my intuition says yes."

I can hear the 90s pop music echoing from down the hallway and wonder if the Bears held their own private dance battle after I left. "Need anything?"

"Would it matter if I did?"

"That is the entire reason I'm here." I fight the urge to frown. "Why are you being such an asshole?"

"I'm just. . ." Ben rolls his eyes up at the ceiling before looking back at me. ". . . frustrated. With this chair."

"This would all be solved if you'd just let me heal you." I raise both my hands at the look on his face. "Okay. Okay. I won't heal you. But you can't have your cake and eat it too. Either let me heal you, or stop being an asshole."

Instead of apologizing, he asks, "Did the bee find what he was looking for?"

"What?"

"You never finished the joke about the bee." Ben is physically more than a few feet away, but his eyes close the distance between us with the laser focus of a falcon. "What's the punchline?"

I'm anxious, not amused, but you'd never know it by the sound of my laughter. "You were listening to that?"

"Of course I was listening. You were speaking."

I stare at him for an uncomfortable amount of time before I admit to myself that I have absolutely no idea what to say in response. He's obviously flirting with me, right? What do I say? What am I supposed to say?! "The punchline is there is no punch line," I announce, defeated. "See? I've already ruined the joke."

"Tell it from the beginning."

"Ok." I sigh. "There's this worker bee who goes to a networking event in the hive. He's flying around, chatting with coworkers and meeting bees from other departments. Anyway, he eventually realizes that the hive has provided refreshments for the event, so he heads to the nearest line. He waits his turn, finally gets to the front of the line, and finds out it was the line to get a plate of food. He eats the food and gets in the next line, which turns out to have dessert. At this point, he's parched, so he's flying around, desperately looking for the punch line and realizes there isn't one."

Ben snorts.

"Thank you for the pity laugh."

Ben shifts slightly in his chair to face the hallway, his eyes narrowing and his brows knitting in confusion at the sound of Vanilla Ice's beloved one hit wonder. "I hope Alex's room is sufficient for the time being. Feel free to take the sofa if you get tired of sleeping on the floor."

"Appreciate the thought, but she's sleeping on the floor next to me in sleepover solidarity."

"Ah," he simply states, and I have to turn away and head towards the fridge because the alternative is to stand here forever bleeding the conversation dry in an attempt to listen to anything and everything he has to say.

I'm in the middle of refilling our lemonade when an unrhythmic pounding at the door almost startles the cup out of my hand. Ben looks just as confused as I do when I ask, "Are you expecting more guests?"

Finn is the last person I expected to find when I open the front door.

It looks like he's barely keeping it together. "My mom told me the worst she could say was NOOOOOO." At the final word, Finn's expression crumples and he begins to wail uncontrollably.

Turns out the worst thing a woman can say isn't no. The worst thing a woman can say is nothing at all.

Finn sobs his way through an explanation of what happened while curled up in a ball on my lap, or at least what he can fit. It's like trying to cradle a human-sized spider.

It seems Finn finally decided to shoot his shot with Hazel, and it went spectacularly. And by spectacularly, I mean spectacularly awful. Rejection in this culture is a woman remaining completely silent when you hit on her. From the sound of it, it looks like Hazel was so disinterested, her eyes gleamed with the glossiness of a dead fish.

From her spot near the couch, Alex mumbles, "I could have told you that."

"You knew?" Finn slowly rises from my lap, puffy eyed and obviously shocked. "You knew she hated me and you never said anything?" For a bizarre second, it looks like he's going to strike her, but his hand simply rests against the side of her head and brushes against the smooth skin. "When did you shave your head?" Finn asks between sobs. "It looks really good."

Alex looks both confused and exhausted. "Thanks."

Finn dramatically flops back into my lap and continues wailing. I have never wanted to laugh so hard in my entire life. I've never seen a man cry like this before, and I don't know what to do. No amount of pep talks or comforting seems to ease his panic that he's "going to die alone." I give Alex a pained look, and she decides to step in.

"Come on, Finn." I can tell Alex is giving it everything she's got. "It's not you! Hazel doesn't like you because Hazel doesn't like anyone. Trust me," Alex adds with exceptional dryness, "she won't shut up about it."

"Hazel's your best friend. You can help me," he surmises, seemingly coming back to life at the idea. "Yes, you can help coach me. Help me win her back!"

"No, Finn, you're not listening—" But it's clearly no use because Finn won't stop coming up with ideas until Alex finally cracks. "Fine! Okay! I'll help you! Just. . . go home."

Finn sniffles one final time before wiping his face dry and announcing, "Sorry for the dramatics, everyone. I'll leave you to it."

As soon as the door closes behind him, Alex whirls on me. "Cora, please tell him this isn't going to work. He wouldn't listen to me!" A raven swoops in through an open window and glides over to Alex's shoulder.

"Wow," I say, "that was fast."

"It's not from Finn." I watch as her expression turns to wide-eyed shock. "Charlotte's engaged—"

"Finally," I huff loudly.

"—to a man," Alex finishes.

"Who the hell is Gunner?" I ask, tossing the letter in Jane's general direction.

Her eyes dart all over the scrap of paper, but she gives none of her true emotions away when she says, "Good for her."

"I'm sorry. . . did I have a stroke, or did you just say good for her?"

"Yes," Jane says, doubling down, "good for her. Took her long enough."

What kind of bullshit is going on here? "You're okay with her marrying someone else?"

"Of course I'm okay," Jane snaps. "Why wouldn't I be okay? It's none of my business."

"Jane, you realize she's in love with you, right?"

Side-stepping me, Jane heads towards the kitchen to pour herself a glass of water. "Apparently not."

"What the hell is going on?" I walk over and turn off the sink. "You fist-fought Erik when he proposed to her, and now suddenly you don't care someone else has proposed?"

"Cora," Jane interjects, "leave it alone."

"No." I cross my arms defiantly. "This is my job."

"Pissing me off is your job?"

Grilling her is obviously not working, so I try a different approach. I lower my voice and say, "Somethings wrong. What are you not telling me?"

For as stubborn as Jane is, I honestly don't expect it to work. But when she finally turns to face me, I'm surprised to find genuine upset in her eyes. "You don't understand how any of this works. You don't just marry someone. There's. . . customs."

"Like?"

"Like you have to get her mothers permission first."

Erik got Charlotte's mothers permission before announcing their engagement? "Look, I don't know what your problem is, but you need to stop this wedding from happening. Charlotte loves you, you've admitted to me you return her feelings, so why don't you ask her mom for her permission and end this pointless drama?"

Jane is usually a short-tempered surly grump. The woman who looks down at me is anything but. "I did," she whispers, quickly turning away and heading into the living room.

Finally, we're getting somewhere. "What do you mean you did? She said no to you but yes to a genocidal maniac?"

"You're a genuine Sherlock Holmes."

I follow closely behind Jane as she wanders aimlessly around her house in an attempt to escape me. "Why'd she say no? Did she give you an answer?"

Jane finally spins around at this, leaning down to yell, "You really think I'm stupid, don't you? Coming in here, telling me shit I already know! Charlotte—" Her voice hitches at the name. "I followed every custom. Every last one. The day I turned 16, I went to her mother and asked permission to marry Charlotte, and her mother said no."

"And that's that?"

"That's that," she responds. "A mother's word is final."

I think about my granddaughter and how feral I feel at the through of fully grown men trying to marry her. "Jane, these customs you're talking about are in place to protect children and teens. Both of you are grown adults who can make your own decisions. Isn't Charlotte, like, 30?"

"What does that have to do with it?"

"You'd think if she was going to pick someone else, she would have done so a long time ago. Don't you find it weird she's settling for Gunnar after all this time? Because it looks to me like she's trying to get your attention."

"Go," Jane whispers. Almost immediately afterwards she screams, "Just go! Get out of my house!"

A month ago, I would have been terrified of her expression. Now, it just makes me sad.

"Charlotte's wedding is in two days. Can I go?"

"Of course you can go," I answer. "Why wouldn't you go?"

Ben frowns in my direction. "She was asking me."

I watch as Alex straps on a backpack and heads towards the door. Wiping my hands clean on my apron, I turn away from the stove. "You're leaving right now?"

"Yeah," she answers, smiling. "Don't worry. Christopher is meeting me at the fence to escort me to Hydra. I'm going to help everyone set up for the wedding."

"But we're about to eat dinner," I say. "Here, take some for the trip."

"I actually packed all of last nights leftovers." Alex shrugs, looking sheepish. "Sorry."

"No, no, that's good! As long as you eat," I say as Alex hurries over to give me a hug. "I won't be there until the day of. Have fun!"

I turn back towards the stove as Alex says goodbye to Ben and hurries out the door. As soon as I hear the wheels of his chair rolling against the hardwood floors, I spin away from the stove and yell, "Hey! You're not supposed to wheel yourself around for another few days!"

Ben gives me an unamused smirk as I walk over to wheel him into the kitchen.

Luckily, his food snobbery works to my advantage. I've had a craving for Cacio e Pepe the last few days, and his kitchen was stocked with the cheeses I need, as well as a pasta press to make fresh noodles. Just as I finish cooking, Hugo knocks on the door, asking if we have any tomatoes. With a little persuasion, he agrees to take Alex's spot at dinner and eat with us.

I wheel Ben to the table, plate everyone's food, and take a seat, ready to dive in.

I'm not even able to take a first bite before Ben asks, "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"I. . . uh, nothing." Hugo closes the cap on a ketchup bottle. "Sorry."

"Sorry for what?" I ask. "It's just food. You can put ketchup on it if you want."

"I'm going to do you a favor and pretend I went momentarily deaf just now." Ben's response is directed at me, but his eyes never leave the bottle of ketchup in Hugo's hand. "You do not eat Cacio e Pepe with ketchup."

"Why not?" Ben has no way of knowing, but he's hitting a sore spot of mine, and it takes a concentrated effort to keep my voice calm. "If Hugo wants to eat it with ketchup, then let him. No! No," I say, stopping Hugo from getting up to put the bottle away. "You eat your food however you want. In fact—"

"Cora." Ben looks like he's about to have an aneurysm. "Don't you dare."

I hear the wails of my ancestors as I dump a heaping glob of Dharma-brand ketchup all over my perfectly good pasta. The second it touches my tongue, I feel my entire face pucker in protest, but I don't give Ben the satisfaction. "Mmm!" I hum unconvincingly, take another tart bite, and swallow without chewing just to get it out of my mouth as quickly as possible.

"Yeah, so, uh," Hugo says, "I'm really not all that hungry anymore. . ."

I turn in his direction—face still slightly puckering—and order, "Eat."

Hugo immediately starts shoveling food in his mouth.

I spend all of dinner thinking up what to say to Ben as soon as Hugo leaves. My mind is a whirlwind of possible counters to his counters. I'm so riled up when Hugo thanks us for the food and leaves, that when I close the door behind him, I just stare at the doorknob for a moment, decompressing from all the fake conversations in my head.

Once my mind has settled, I spin around, shoot Ben a scathing look, and then riffle through the kitchen cabinets in search of a container.

Ben doesn't ask me what I'm doing or what I'm looking for. "As someone who was raised by Italians," he comments flatly, "I cannot believe you sat idly by and defended such an insult to the craft."

"Ben," I say evenly, through I'm not sure how much longer I can remain measured, "it wasn't your food. I put it on a plate and gave it to Hugo, which made it his food. Which means you shut your mouth and let him enjoy it in whatever way he wants."

"You do not eat Cacio e Pepe with ketchup," he sneers.

"Of course you don't eat it with ketchup!" I turn to scream at him, and the ferocity in my voice finally makes him look chastised. "What kind of psychopath puts ketchup on white sauce?" I don't like the way he's relaxing at my outburst, like he's slowly starting to feel smug that I agree with him. " In matters of food," I continue more calmly, "being rude is worse than being wrong. You shouldn't have said anything."

"This is my house," Ben returns in a clipped, quiet tone.

"Yes," I raise my voice again and toss the cloth napkin down on the table in rage. "This is your house, and you were a terrible host tonight! Ugh, you still don't get it! You should have known better." I can't help but feel like I'm scolding Fenrir as I step closer to his wheelchair and wag a finger in Ben's face. "I don't ever want you to embarrass me like that again. You hear me?" When he doesn't answer, I yell, "Do you hear me, Benjamin?"

There's a noticeable change in the air. Some sort of shift in dynamics that brings a startled blush to my face. I'm not entirely sure how I know, but he's enjoying this in a way that makes me deeply uncomfortable. Unsure of what to do next, I grab the last plate off the table and turn away from him, dumping the dirty dishes in a sink full of sudsy water.

Hesitantly, Ben wheels closer. "I've upset you, and I'd like to apologize."

"Go away," I snap. "And stop wheeling yourself around. You're going to rip your stitches!"

"Cora, I'm sorry." He studies me a moment, and then relents. "I'm not too proud to admit I'm very confused as to why you're so upset."

Once the table is cleared off, I turn back towards the stovetop of leftovers and start shoveling what's left of them into Tupperware. "We have to deal with enough bullshit as it is," I huff under my breath.

"We?"

I didn't think he could hear me, but since he has, I start talking and can't seem to stop. "Hugo and I are the only two fat people on this island." I wait for Ben to say what everyone tends to say—no you're not!—but he just gives a little jolt of his head, acknowledging it as fact but encouraging me to explain my point. "Fat people can't just eat food."

"I still don't understand," Ben says slowly.

"We can't just enjoy our food because people feel inclined to comment on every single aspect of whatever it is we're eating. All the time. It literally doesn't matter what it is. If I'm eating pizza, I get comments about how I should make better choices. But if I'm eating. . . I don't know. . . a Greek salad, then people say I should have altered the ingredients in my dressing, or used less feta, or added carrots—"

Ben looks enraged. "You don't put carrots in a Greek salad."

"That's not the point! Oh my God, you're exhausting."

"Where are you going?"

"Out," I answer vaguely and slam the front door behind me.

"Nah," Hugo says, waving away the thought.

Now that Hugo and Libby have finally met, I've spent the last ten minutes trying to convince him that she is, in fact, interested in him. "I'm being completely serious, Hugo." It's easier to act goofy around Hugo because you can sense he doesn't judge you the same way everyone else does. I point a thumb at myself and proclaim, "Goddess of Love, remember?"

"What would somebody like her see in somebody like me?"

"Oh, come on," I complain. "Everyone loves you. You're hilarious, and kind, and you're easy to talk to." Hugo looks pleased at my encouragement, but I'm also well aware of all the self-doubt that comes with being bigger. I know all too well how exhausting it is to wonder if people like you or are simply allowing you to exist peacefully in their vicinity. The answer is almost always not because they actually like you.

Neither of us are directly acknowledging the obvious—we're the only two people who understand what it's like to be bigger than everyone else in the room.

"Ehh," he says in an attempt to brush me off. "Well, so are you."

Huh? "I am?"

"You were helping people gather and organize food as soon as you woke up from the crash. You gave me a blanket."

I don't remember any of this. "I did?"

"Yeah, and you helped Walt calm down when he lost Vincent. You were actually stressing Jack out a lot because he kept trying to get you to sit down but you kept wandering off to help people." He smiles and brings his shoulders up in a quick shrug. "I guess that's why it was such a shock you turned out to be the leader of the vikings."

"There's a lot of reasons people were surprised that I'm the leader of anything." Great, and I've somehow managed to make this awkward. Abort mission. "Well, I won't keep you any longer. Again, I am so sorry about dinner."

"It's cool, dude. No harm done. And thanks for the leftovers."

I take a look around the small bungalow Hugo shares with Charlie. Or, rather, shared with Charlie. "Be sure to say hi to Charlie for me when he's out of rehab."

Hugo waves from his spot on the sofa. "Will do. Oh, and Cora? I promise to keep your secret."

My mind immediately races with every possible scenario. What if he figured out I'm only pretending to dislike Ben? Oh my God, he's accidently going to tell everyone on the island and our perfect plan will be ruined. Everyone knows Hugo can't keep a secret! I smile to try and hide my panic. "What secret?"

"You totally ate a chicken enchilada when we first crashed."

"Oh, wow, I did, didn't I?" I'm so relieved it's not about Ben that my laugh comes out loud and obnoxious. "Thank you," I say on my way out the door. "You're a real pal, Hugo."

Night has fallen over the community, and everyone has retreated into their snug little bungalows. I pass by Juliet's house and hear the amused laughter of Jack through an open window. At first I dismiss it, but then I hear Juliet laughing alongside him, so I inconspicuously peak into the nearest window.

How long has this been a thing?

I scribble down notes by the light of the moon as I reluctantly head back to Ben's house.

Without Alex as a buffer, I have no idea how to act around Ben. Our last interactions were a series of love letters that made me swoon, but he's done nothing but piss me off since his injury.

Cut him some slack. He pushed a kid out of harms way and is suffering the consequences of 'no good deed goes unpunished.' I wish he would just let me heal him so he could stop moping. I want to talk to him, but I can't think of anything that won't remind him that he's stuck in a wheelchair for the time being. As the silence drags on, I scrape the recesses of my memory to think of something, anything, to talk about. I think back on a conversation I had with Alex and decide to ask, "What can you tell me about seiðr?"

"Absolutely nothing," he answers. "But that's only because men do not practice seiðr."

Alex mentioned seiðr is illegal, but is it illegal for everyone or just women? "All men?" I ask. "Why? Are they not allowed?"

Ben looks up from his book and shakes his head no. "It's not that they're forbidden from practicing, it's that they physically can't. Men do not inherit magic."

Magic is inherited? I want to ask him more, but he's already turned his attention back to his book.

Emboldened by the fact that he can't easily rush over and snatch things out of my hands, I walk over to his desk and flip through the stacks of seemingly endless papers. A strange sadness wells in my chest at the sight of so many documents with runes on them.

I hold one up to the light, but it's gibberish to me. "How long did it take you to learn their language?"

"Conversationally?" Ben looks up from his book again, his face thankfully not set in any detectable annoyance. "A year or so. Fluently? Many, many years. Why?"

I contemplate lying to save myself potential embarrassment, but I end up telling the truth. "I hate how I can't understand what people are saying half the time. They would never admit this to my face, but I can tell they're disappointed I can't understand my own language. I don't know. It's just. . ." I think about all the times the women on Hydra make comments in Norse, laughing like it's the funniest thing they've ever heard. "It's kinda lonely."

"I could teach you, if you'd like."

"Thanks. Any help would be much appreciated." I find a leather sketchbook under the papers and flip through it, looking back up at him with a massive smile. "Are these yours?"

"Can you please stop rifling through my things?"

I ignore him and continue flipping through pages. "You're an artist?"

"In a manner of speaking," he says, sounding flustered. "I'm only good at portraits. I'm terrible at anything that isn't human." Ben holds out a hand. "May I have that back, please?"

"It's so unfair." I hand him the notebook and start holding up fingers to countdown my list. "You're a first rate cook, you can draw better than anyone I've ever met—"

"I'm actually a much better painter."

I hold up another finger. "You're incredibly modest." My insides swell with pride when I get a chuckle out of him.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

"What?"

"What are you thinking about? You look sad."

My initial reflex to say oh, nothing dies almost immediately. If I'm going to talk about my family to anyone, it's going to be him. "I was thinking about my siblings and how much they would have loved it here."

"Did they look like you?"

I burst into loud laughter at the thought. "No, they didn't look anything like me." I tell him how similar they looked to Alex but explain how they're different.

Talking about my siblings makes me homesick in a way I've never felt before. I spent my life wishing my parents liked me, but a part of me always knew that was a fools hope. But my siblings? Our bond was shatterproof. We had no choice but to band together to survive. As annoying as they could be sometimes, I would die for them, no questions asked.

"Did they look like this?"

Ben turns the notebook around and my vision literally tunnels. All I sense is the faint chirping of night bugs congregating by the window outside. It's just bugs chirping and the sight of three people I never thought I'd ever see again. He was so quiet, I didn't even know he was sketching. I make my way across the room in slow motion, focused solely on the realistic likeness of my younger twin sisters and little brother. When I'm close enough, Ben hands it to me so I can get a better look.

"You're allowed to cry." Ben looks exhausted, but he smiles anyway. "I'm used to it by now."

I laugh as the tears finally spill over. "Thank you."

"You don't need my permission to cry."

"No," I whisper through the tears, clinging to the notebook for dear life, "thank you. For this."

"You're welcome." He nods in acknowledgement, offering the rare sight of softened eyes. "If you don't mind wheeling me back to my room, I think I'm about ready to turn in for the night."

I wipe my face dry, marveling again at the sketch. "Okay, don't make this weird, but before you go to sleep, I need you to take your shirt off so I can redress your stitches."

Ben sighs. "I wish I could shower. The humidity was not kind today, and I can still feel the sweat on me."

I know how he feels. I felt the same exact way when I first landed here. It seems so long ago that we were all on the beach, washing up in the ocean with nothing but spare clothing for a washcloth. Oh! "Want a sponge bath in the meantime?"

Ben's eyebrows twitch up in amusement. "Why? Are you offering?"

Well, no. I was actually just going to get you a bowl and a wash cloth and bid you goodnight.

Having been raised by a devout Catholic mother, I was never taught anything about sex other than abstinence is always the answer. We're not supposed to talk about it, not supposed to think about it, and obviously not supposed to do it, or else we go to Hell. Now I'm a married woman, and I haven't a clue in the world how to approach the subject.

Wait, why am I thinking about sex? Nobody mentioned sex. What is wrong with me? He just wants to get clean. Why am I always thinking about sex?

No, wait, he's flirting. Yes, definitely flirting. I'm not reading this wrong. What do I say? Is flirting just one giant game of chicken?

I stare him down, desperately trying to mask how terrified I am. Finally, I think of something to say. "That's the entire reason I'm here, remember?"