I followed Riley to catch up with the group. Our discussion left me feeling a little uneasy. The mention of a cult was disturbing. I stashed this idea for future contemplation.

“So, you think all people are characters? Can you envision our roles?” I eyed the others. “I mean, Kathy is the sweetheart, but I can’t figure out Aiden.”

“Aiden is the brooding hero or secret chaos agent.” Riley had them all pegged. “Curt is the comic relief. Oh, and Beverly’s the femme fatale.”

“What about us then?”

Riley smiled. “Is it possible for a protagonist to grasp their role in a tale?”

We watched the shadows of clouds chase themselves across the ocean, silent for a moment, then the supper bell rang, breaking the mood.

Dinner was served on the aft terrace. The chef prepared coconut ceviche, seared tuna, and a deconstructed pineapple upside-down cake.

Each person used familiar icebreakers—travel horror stories, favorite restaurants, and Kardashian gossip—however, true personalities emerged with another bottle of wine.

Kathy confessed her fear of the sea, despite her long-held dream of visiting French Polynesia. Curt admitted to being out of work for six months, expecting the trip would spark ideas. Aiden mentioned he’d sailed solo from Melbourne to Fiji. This won him reluctant respect from the table.

Beverly, when she arrived, wore an emerald green dress and spoke with a lazy, deliberate cadence, charming the whole gathering. She worked in tech but wouldn’t elaborate. “The more you tell, the less they pay,” she said, and raised her glass to toast the nondisclosure agreement.

Riley sat opposite me and absorbed each confession; analyzing them. She glanced over at me, and a smile crossed her lips.

Aiden took charge of the evening’s entertainment. His Aussie accent made me question whether it was genuine.

“Who wants a quick history lesson?” he asked. Low approval was clear through some moans.

Undeterred, Aiden continued, “The destination is the Society Islands. These isles are protected from the ocean’s power because of barrier reefs. Surrounded by underwater volcanoes, the water on the coast is warmer than the rest of the Pacific. Eroded mountain peaks descend onto coastal lands, lagoons, or the sea. Keep this in mind when you hike, as the lush vegetation is deceptive.”

Curt interrupted, “Why are you so informed about this area, mate?”

Aiden chuckled, “Google, my friend. Now, where was I? The Tuamotu Islands are the northernmost land mass. It doesn’t experience severe rainstorms. We are lucky in that regard. The climate is tropical, and therefore warm and humid.”

“Duh,” we chanted. Laughter broke out. We wiped our brows and upper lips with our napkins in jest.

“The primary food sources are fish, shrimp, coconuts, breadfruit, and other edible plants along the coast.”

Beverly sighed, “There go my cholesterol levels.”

“Is there anything else?” Kathy asked.

“Superstitions are a part of the Polynesian culture, human sacrifice and ritual sex, in particular.”

Each person at the table seemed concerned by Aiden’s news. A genuine look of fear came over Beverly, who frowned with her jaw dropping.

“They assume the outcome is supernatural punishment, presented as bad luck or illness.” Aiden hesitated. “They hire magic experts to help with love, war, planting, fishing, and if someone does them wrong, they get cursed.”

“Seriously, Aiden? Did you have to go there?” Beverly pushed her chair back. “I believed I had escaped that? Voodoo nonsense fixation will be our downfall if we stay. Where can I buy a return ticket?”

I assumed it was a joke, but her expression showed complete seriousness.

“No way. Not me. I refuse to relive this.” She shook her finger, turned, and stormed out. The sound of her rhinestone stilettos echoed down the hall to her suite.

After dinner, people drifted to the lounge for karaoke, and I lingered by the railing to watch the sunset turn bands of tangerine and blood orange. Riley joined me, fanning herself with her hand.

“What is your opinion of this rogue group?” she asked.

“They must have picked us for maximum drama,” I said, and Riley barked a genuine laugh.

“I treasure these.” She gestured at the boat, the ocean, and the faded sunlight. “They take a bunch of randos, throw them together, and see what shakes out. This is comparable to an experiment.”

“Or a recipe, if you’re a chef.”

“I would call it more of a stir-fry,” Riley bumped her shoulder against mine.

We lingered on the deck, yet kept our distance. I realized I had never experienced such a vibrant existence, or such vulnerability, before.

Riley turned to me, voice lowered: “You think we’ll survive the week?”

I grinned. “I hope we will thrive.”

“Spoken like a true protagonist.”

We laughed, and I, for once, felt comforted.

The following morning, I awoke to the sound of someone pounding on my stateroom door. After a night of intermittent sleep and dreams, I wanted to ignore it.

For a moment, I lay there and stared at the ceiling, wishing slumber hadn’t ended. The digital clock glowed: 7:08 a.m.  Following unlimited Mai Tai’s until two, my groggy head was unprepared for the day.

But the persistent knock resembled morse code for get the hell up! My reluctance to slide out of bed was strong, but I did, and splashed tap water on my face. I ran wet fingers through my hair, debated whether to dress, and decided the person would deal with my disheveled self.

I navigated the narrow space and twisted the latch open. There stood Riley, bright-eyed and made up. She held a mug of coffee and a waterproof tote.

“Good. You’re alive!” her voice chirped. “We’ve got about an hour until we arrive, and you have to witness this sunrise. It’s nuts. You know how some say the colors at the equator are different? They are not kidding. Also, I suspect they’re making omelets in the kitchen. With actual eggs, not from a carton. Let’s go!” She thrust the cup at me. I grunted. “You realize I was asleep?”

Riley rifled through my suitcase. “Girl, you’d sleep through a cyclone. Do you plan to wear this?” She pulled out a T-shirt from the depths of my bag, wrinkled, and let it drop. “Or this?” A pair of shorts with less fabric than I was wearing. She stuck out her tongue.

“We’re landing on a beach, not at Versailles,” I said, but she headed to the next mission. She grabbed my brush and began with short, efficient strokes, and yanked at the knots in my hair.

“Vanity is a prison,” I muttered.

“You are not vain, Mel, you’re just—” she narrowed her eyes at me in the mirror, “—deliberately unconcerned.”

I groaned. “Oh God, not again.”

“And Karen’s been filming from the time we left New York. I would rather die than be seen on someone’s Insta looking like trash.” She patted my head. “There. Passable.”

Riley shepherded me toward the stateroom entrance. I followed, groggy but aware of the thrum of anticipation within my chest. We navigated the corridor, and I noticed workers polishing the brass fixtures. She shot them a dazzling smile; their return look mingled with awe and caution.

“Do you worry you might be too much for some people?” I asked. We climbed a spiral staircase not designed for those with size-nine feet and an aversion to heights.

She laughed and tossed her locks. “Always. But I’d prefer be over-the-top to boring. I mean, in the middle of nowhere, sailing to a mysterious island, and I’m gonna tone it down?”

At the stern, a breakfast spread displayed with the abundance you’d find on cruise ships. Pastries, fruit pyramids, and a chafing dish with indescribable contents added as a mystery dish. Eggs or an avant-garde dessert? Karen, true to form, camera in hand, recorded the tableau. She caught my eye and nodded, but didn’t lower the device.

Riley shoved a piece of citrus my way before I could protest and narrated the spectacle, half to the lens and half to me.

“Where is National Geographic? This view should be on one of their calendars,” she gestured toward the horizon. “You on this, Karen? Is this going to be a TikTok or an actual documentary?”

She grunted. I peeled the fruit—star-shaped, yellow, sticky—and ate it in three bites, surprised by the sourness.

“See, I told you,” Riley said, triumphant. “Worth getting up for, right?”

I squinted at the line of white sand and the row of figures waiting on the dock. From a distance, they looked almost ceremonial, rehearsing for some formal greeting ritual.

“With everyone? Yes. With the island? I guess we’re about to find out.” Riley pointed at the horizon. “There’s where the real drama starts.”

She wasn’t wrong. The islet’s contour gave me goosebumps; it appeared too precise, too planned.

Curt joined a few minutes later. He nodded at me in greeting and constructed a towering omelet, his routine precise and methodical.

Aiden wandered in last, his hairstyle a mess, lids barely open, and poured himself the darkest black coffee. No cream, no sugar, just despair.

“Big day,” he said, and raised his mug mocking a toast.

Riley lifted hers. “Here’s to the shit forthcoming.”

I hoisted my glass and realized Beverly wasn’t with us. “Hey,” I said. “Anyone seen Ms. Beverly?”

“Not since last night,” Aiden piped in.

A murmur went through the crowd.

Riley jumped. “I’ll check her room.”

No one objected. We watched Riley slip into the hallway, her footsteps muffled by the thick oriental runner. The conversation resumed, but it was nervous and fragmented. Everyone waited for Riley’s return.

After a short period, she reappeared in the doorway, clutching the jamb. Her hands shook, and her face was ashen.

She stumbled forward, and I moved to catch her. “What’s the matter?” I asked.

“It…she…blood everywhere…” Rarely at a loss for words, Riley looked at me with tear-stained eyes, in shock, and collapsed in my arms, unconscious. Kathy bolted to fetch the captain; Aiden and I sprinted for Beverly’s quarters.

At the end of the corridor, the door to Beverly’s room stood ajar. The faintest whiff of something metallic wafted out. I pushed it open and stepped inside.

Editor: Michelle Naragon