Charlie vs the Union of Doom - Prologue. Prologue: The Summoning Problem

The Hartley kitchen had never been so quiet, and that was precisely the problem.

It was 7:47 AM on the morning of the family's departure for the Caribbean, and the silence was deafening. No squeaking. No Latin commentary. No small, judgmental flames flickering at the ceiling. Just the distant hum of the refrigerator and the soft clink of Mrs. Hartley moving about the stove, making toast that no one was eating.

Charlie stood at the counter, staring at his phone. Taine had texted thirty minutes ago: "Just arrived in Florida, going through passport control. Tyler says hi. He's already planning the wrestling drills. Send photos of Cecil."

Charlie had sent a photo of Cecil, who was currently sitting in his high chair, arms crossed, glaring at the wall with the particular fury of a toddler who had been denied something he deserved.

The photo had been taken thirty seconds before Cecil's eyes flashed red. Now, Charlie's phone was still in his hand, and his son was no longer in the high chair.

"Pater."

Charlie looked up. Cecil was standing in the middle of the kitchen, his tiny fists clenched, his ancient eyes blazing with a fury that did not belong on a three-year-old face.

Charlie sighed. "Cecil. We've been over this."

"Pater. Non. Abis." (Father. You are not leaving.)

"I'm not leaving. I'm right here. Taine is the one who—"

"PATER!" Cecil's voice cracked. His eyes were wet now, the fury crumbling into something much sadder. "Volo Pater." (I want Father.)

Charlie crossed the kitchen and crouched down to his son's level. "I know. I miss him too. But he'll be back in a month. And we're going on a holiday. A holiday, Cecil. With Gam-Gam and Grandpater. And—"

"Non." Cecil's voice was flat. Final. "Pater. Manet." (Father. Stays.)

"Cecil—"

"MANET."

The air in the kitchen shimmered. The temperature dropped. The lights flickered.

And Taine appeared.

He materialized in the middle of the kitchen, mid-sentence, wearing a Hawaiian shirt and a look of profound, bone-deep resignation. He was holding his passport. He was sun-kissed. He had been enjoying himself.

Taine looked at Cecil. Cecil looked at Taine.

Taine took a sip of his cocktail. "Cecil. We discussed this."

"Pater." Cecil's voice was small now. "Non abis." (Don't leave.)

"I have to. Tyler is waiting for me. We talked about this before I left. You're going to have a wonderful time with Little Daddy and Gam-Gam. A whole month of holiday."

"Non. Volo te." (No. I want you.)

Taine set down the cocktail. He crouched, bringing himself to Cecil's level. "I love you. You know that, yes?"

Cecil nodded slowly. The ancient eyes were still wet, but the fury was fading.

"And I will come back. But I need this time with Tyler. And you need this time with Little Daddy. That's how holidays work. We take turns."

Cecil considered this. His tiny brow furrowed. His lip wobbled.

"Pater..."

"Cecil. I love you. But I am going on holiday. And you are going on holiday. And we will see each other in a month." Taine's voice was gentle but firm. "Now. Send me back."

Cecil's eyes flashed red. "Non."

"Cecil."

"NON."

"Yes. We have boundaries. We discussed this. Now, if you please."

Cecil glared. The air shimmered. Taine disappeared.

Charlie stared at the empty space where Taine had been. "He's going to keep doing that."

Mrs. Hartley, serene as ever, placed a cup of tea in front of him. "He's three, dear. He's allowed to have big feelings."

"Big feelings that teleport his other father across the Atlantic."

"It's a very impressive skill. He gets it from his father."

Charlie stared at her. "Which one?"

Mrs. Hartley smiled. "Both, I imagine."

---

The car journey to Heathrow was approximately as chaotic as anything Charlie had ever experienced.

Cecil was in his car seat, arms crossed, still sulking. Mr. Hartley was in the driver's seat, grumbling about traffic and the "bloody cost of parking." Mrs. Hartley was in the passenger seat, navigating with the serene confidence of someone who had never been wrong about anything in her life. Chloe and Gregory were in the back, Gregory reading Byron aloud in a low murmur, occasionally pausing to ask if anyone wanted tea.

Matt and Simon were somewhere behind them, in a separate car, because Mr. Hartley had drawn a line at "three teenagers, a demon baby, and a couple of strays" in one vehicle.

Charlie was in the middle of it all, trying to keep Cecil from summoning Taine again.

"Cecil. Please. We are going on holiday. It's going to be fun. There's a beach. And sand. You love sand."

Cecil glared at him. "Pater. In Florida." (Father. In Florida.)

"Yes. Because he's on holiday. With Tyler."

"Pater. Non. In Florida. Pater. Hic." (Father. Not in Florida. Father. Here.)

"He'll be back in a month."

"Non." Cecil's eyes flashed red. "NUNC." (Now.)

Charlie braced himself.

The air shimmered. The car swerved. Mr. Hartley shouted something about "bloody magic in my bloody car."

Taine appeared in the back seat, squashed between Chloe and Gregory, still wearing his floral swim trunks, his cocktail now replaced with a bottle of sunscreen.

He looked at Charlie. "Again."

"Sorry. He's—"

"I know." Taine turned to Cecil. "Cecil. I love you. I will see you in a month. This is not a negotiation."

Cecil's lip wobbled. "Pater..."

"I know. But you have Little Daddy and Gam-Gam and Grandpater. You have Chloe and Gregory and Matt and Simon. You have the beach. You have the pool. You have—"

"Pater. Tu. Volo." (Father. You. I want.)

Taine's voice softened. "I know you do. And I want you too. But sometimes we have to miss people. It's part of loving them." He leaned forward and kissed Cecil's forehead. "Send me back, Cecil."

Cecil sniffled. The air shimmered. Taine disappeared.

Mr. Hartley stared at the empty space in his rearview mirror. "Did he just—"

"Every time," Charlie said. "This is the fourth time."

"Fourth?"

"Since yesterday."

Mr. Hartley was silent for a moment. Then, very quietly: "I need a drink."

Mrs. Hartley patted his arm. "There'll be cocktails at the resort, dear."

"That's not what I meant."

---

Heathrow Terminal 5 was exactly as chaotic as anyone had expected.

The queues for check-in were endless. The queues for security were worse. The air smelled of overpriced coffee and existential dread. Somewhere, a child was crying. Somewhere else, a man was being loudly told that his bag was too heavy.

Charlie was trying to manage Cecil, who had been assigned the stroller and was treating it like a prison. Every few seconds, he would try to summon Taine, and Charlie would have to intercept.

"No, Cecil. We are not summoning Taine again."

"Pater—"

"We’re about to board a plane. You cannot summon him onto a plane."

"Possum." (I can.)

"You cannot. And even if you could, it would be very rude."

Cecil considered this. His eyes flickered red. "Cur?" (Why?)

"Because it's his holiday. And Tyler is waiting for him. And they—"

"Charles." Mr. Hartley's voice cut through the chaos. He was standing at the check-in desk, holding his passport and a look of profound annoyance. "There is a problem."

Charlie looked up. "What problem?"

"The hotel." Mr. Hartley's face was doing something complicated. "They've overbooked."

"What?"

"Overbooked. The resort. Too many guests. Not enough rooms." He was reading from a printout. "They are 'upgrading' us to a 'premium villa experience.' The upgrade is free. Because the original accommodation is, apparently, no longer available."

Matt, who had finally caught up with them, was practically vibrating with excitement. "A premium villa experience? That sounds amazing!"

Mr. Hartley glared at him. "It is not amazing. It's suspicious. Nothing is free in this world."

"Some things are free," Matt offered helpfully. "Like—"

"Stop talking."

Matt stopped talking.

Mrs. Hartley approached the desk, peering at the printout over her husband's shoulder. "It says here the villa is on the north side of the island. Away from the main resort. Very private."

Mr. Hartley's expression darkened. "Private. That's code for 'we forgot to build the main resort and are shoving you into a shack.'"

"I don't think it's a shack, dear."

"I have a very bad feeling about this."

Chloe appeared beside Charlie, her phone in hand. "Gregory just Googled the resort. The reviews are... interesting."

"Interesting how?"

"One review says 'the pool was working for approximately 73 minutes before the mysterious malfunctions started.' Another says 'the staff are very friendly, but the electricity kept shorting out.' And this one—" She squinted at the screen. "This one says 'I'm pretty sure the gremlins are real.'"

Charlie blinked. "Gremlins?"

"Apparently the island has a gremlin problem. The locals call it—" she scrolled. "The 'Gremlin Dispute.'"

Simon, who had appeared at Charlie's side, was already pulling out his binder. "I have a section on gremlins. They're classic myth—sabotage machinery, cause chaos, thrive on disorder. They're not inherently evil, just... chaotic." He paused. "The fact that there's a 'dispute' suggests they're organized."

Charlie stared at him. "Organized gremlins?"

"Unions, maybe. Industrial action. It happens more than you'd think in the supernatural community." Simon flipped a page. "There's a precedent. The Copperwire Strike of 1847. The Gremlins walked out for three months. The entire London Underground had to be rerouted through—"

"Simon."

"Right. Sorry. Vacation mode." He closed the binder. "No supernatural labor disputes. Just beaches and mojitos."

Matt patted his shoulder. "That's the spirit."

Cecil, from his stroller, fixed Simon with a skeptical stare. "Daemon." (Demon.)

Simon blinked. "What?"

"Daemon. In capite tuo." (Demon. In your head.)

Simon sighed. "Yes, Cecil. I know."

"Duo daemones." (Two demons.)

"One of them is an Angel, but I know it doesn’t seem like it. I know."

"Multum." (Many.)

"Just... stop, please."

Cecil nodded sagely and went back to sulking.

---

The check-in desk was where the first real argument broke out.

Mr. Hartley had produced a spreadsheet. It was printed out, color-coded, and covered in annotations that suggested he had been planning this trip for months. The problem was that the airline's baggage policy did not align with his spreadsheet, and he was taking it personally.

"Young man," Mr. Hartley said to the check-in attendant, a beleaguered-looking man named Dave, "I am telling you that this bag weighs twenty-three kilograms. Your machine is telling you it weighs thirty-one. We are having a disagreement, and I would like you to resolve it."

Dave looked at the bag. He looked at the scale. He looked at Mr. Hartley, whose face was now a shade of red that matched the airline's logo.

"Sir, the scale is calibrated. We have to charge for the excess weight."

"The scale is calibrated incorrectly."

"The scale is calibrated correctly."

"I have a spreadsheet."

Dave's expression did not change. "I'm sure you do, sir."

Mrs. Hartley intervened, placing a calming hand on her husband's arm. "Dear, it's only a few pounds. We'll pay the fee and move on."

"It's the principle of the thing, Martha."

"The principle is costing us time. We have a plane to catch."

Mr. Hartley grumbled, but he reached for his wallet. Dave processed the payment with the expression of someone who had been through this exact conversation approximately seven hundred times before.

Matt, of course, was filming. Narrating with a surprisingly good David Attenborough impression. "And here we see the patriarch engaging in a classic negotiation tactic—spreadsheet diplomacy. Notice the matriarch's calming influence. It's beautiful, really."

Simon grabbed his arm. "Matt. The phone."

"I'm documenting the family journey!"

"You're documenting our family falling apart."

"I'm documenting the texture of the experience."

"Please stop saying that."

---

The security line was where things began to unravel.

Matt, despite Simon's repeated warnings, had been filming everything. His phone was out, his camera was rolling, and he was narrating the family's journey with the enthusiasm of a nature documentary presenter.

"And here we see the wild Hartley in its natural habitat—the airport. Notice the matriarch, Mrs. Hartley, effortlessly navigating the chaos. The patriarch, Mr. Hartley, radiating disapproval. And the elusive Cecil, currently attempting to set the queue rope on fire—"

Simon grabbed his arm. "Matt. Put the phone away."

"This is for the family archives!"

"The family archives do not need footage of Cecil committing arson in Terminal 5."

"I'm not saying I'd release it—"

"You're not filming it."

"—but it's nice to have options."

A security guard approached. He was young, earnest, and clearly had not been prepared for this. "Sir, I'm going to need you to put the phone away. Recording in the security area is prohibited."

Matt's face went through several expressions. "Oh. Right. Sorry." He pocketed the phone. "First time flying. Very exciting. Normally I teleport, or portal—"

"I understand, sir. Please move along." The guard obviously dismissed him as just another crank.

Matt moved along. Simon followed, muttering something about "color-coded travel protocols" that no one else could hear.

The security line itself was a fresh circle of hell. Simon's binder nearly got confiscated. A security guard had taken one look at it—the tabs, the labels, the sheer volume of paper—and decided it was suspicious. Simon had to explain, with increasing desperation, that it was not a weapon, not a bomb, and not "a manifesto of any kind."

"It's a planner," Simon insisted. "I have a system. Color-coded. Tabbed. Sectioned. It's harmless."

The guard squinted at it. "What's in the 'Emergency Protocols' section?"

Simon opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

He knew exactly what was in the 'Emergency Protocols' section. It was a detailed breakdown of what to do in case of demonic possession, supernatural attack, interdimensional breach, or gremlin infestation. He could not say that.

"Travel advice," he said weakly. "Just... travel advice. In case of delays."

The guard stared at him. Then at the binder. Then back at him.

"Move along."

Simon moved along, clutching his binder to his chest like a lifeline.

---

The gate was where they finally encountered the hot tour guide.

He was tall, sun-tanned, and wearing a resort polo shirt that was aggressively yellow. His name tag read "MARCUS." He was holding a clipboard and a smile that suggested he was either genuinely enthusiastic about his job or very well paid to pretend.

"Welcome, welcome!" Marcus said, beaming at the assembled passengers. "I'm Marcus, your resort ambassador! I'll be greeting you on the island and making sure your holiday is absolutely perfect!"

Charlie was trying to get Cecil settled in his stroller. Cecil was not cooperating. He was trying to summon Taine again, and Charlie was trying to stop him.

Marcus spotted Charlie and made a beeline for him.

"Sir! Sir, you look like you could use a hand!"

Charlie looked up, flustered. "I'm fine. We're fine. He's just—"

Cecil's eyes locked onto Marcus. His tiny brow furrowed. His lip curled.

"NON."

Marcus blinked. "I'm sorry?"

Charlie sighed. "He says no."

"To what?"

"To you. Apparently."

Marcus smiled, unbothered. "Kids, right? They're—"

"TU NON ES PATER." (You are not the Father.)

Marcus's smile flickered. "What did he say?"

"Nothing," Charlie said quickly. "He's bilingual. Very advanced. He says a lot of things. Most of them are—"

"TU. NON. ES. PATER."

Marcus looked at Charlie, clearly reassessing. "He... doesn't like me?"

"He doesn't like anyone who tries to help. It's a phase. Very possessive. Working on it."

Marcus hesitated, then stepped back, his smile firmly back in place. "Well, I'll see you on the island! The resort is gorgeous. You're going to love it."

He moved on to the next passenger.

Cecil watched him go, eyes narrowed. "Non bonus." (Not good.)

Charlie sighed. "Cecil. He was just being friendly."

"Non bonus."

"Fine. He's not good. Happy?"

Cecil nodded. "Satis." (Enough.)

Marcus had finished his welcome speech and was now circulating through the gate, offering free drink vouchers and cheerful encouragement. He paused at a family with three children, complimented a woman on her sunhat, and then returned to Charlie.

"I hope your son warms up to me," Marcus said, his smile still firmly in place. "I have a way with kids. Usually."

Charlie shifted Cecil to his other hip. "He's just in a mood. His father just left for Florida. He's not taking it well."

"His father?"

"My partner. Well, my co-parent. It's complicated."

Marcus nodded, as if this was perfectly normal. "I understand. Blended families are common these days. It takes time to adjust." His eyes flicked to the conspicuously absent wedding ring, and he smiled.

Cecil's eyes flickered red. "Non loquere cum eo." (Don't talk to him.)

Charlie ignored him. "We'll be fine. It's just a holiday."

"Well, if you need anything—anything at all—just ask for Marcus. I'm the head ambassador. I can make things happen."

Cecil's voice was flat. "Non bonus."

Marcus's smile didn't waver. "Kids, right? They always know."

"Know what?"

"That I'm just doing my job." He winked. "Enjoy the flight, sir. I'll see you on the island." His hand rested on Charlie’s leg a little longer than it should, much to Cecil’s indignation.

He moved on. Cecil watched him go, his ancient eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Non est Pater," Cecil announced. (He is not Father.)

"No, buddy. He's not."

"Bonum." (Good.)

---

The plane finally began boarding.

There was a fight over overhead bin space. Mr. Hartley, who had paid for priority boarding, insisted on putting his carry-on in the first available bin. Matt, who had not paid for priority boarding, tried to put his bag in the same bin. Mr. Hartley glared at him. Matt glared back. Simon mediated. Mrs. Hartley found another bin. Order was restored.

Charlie managed to get Cecil settled in the window seat, still sulking, still refusing to look at anyone. The tiny horns were just visible above his hair, and a small flame was flickering at his nostril, threatening to ignite the seatbelt.

"Cecil. We are not going to set the plane on fire."

Cecil ignored him.

"We are going to sit nicely, and we are going to have a lovely flight, and we are going to have a lovely holiday."

Cecil turned to face him. His eyes were ancient. His voice was flat.

"Pater. Florida." (Father. Florida.)

"Yes. He's in Florida. We talked about this."

"Pater. Hic." (Father. Here.)

"No. He's not here. He's on his holiday. We are on our holiday."

Cecil's eyes flashed red. The seatbelt sign flickered. The overhead lights flickered. The entire plane flickered.

And Taine appeared.

He was standing in the aisle, balancing on one foot, clutching a bottle of sunscreen and a very bewildered expression. He was still wearing the floral swim trunks. He was not wearing shoes.

He looked around. At the plane. At the passengers. At Cecil, who was now pointing at him with a triumphant expression.

"Pater!" (Father!)

"Cecil." Taine's voice was strained. "We discussed this."

"Pater. In avis." (Father. On the plane.)

"Yes. I can see that."

"Manet." (Stays.)

"No, Cecil. I'm on holiday. With Tyler. In Florida. You are going on holiday with Little Daddy and Gam-Gam."

"Non." Cecil's voice was flat. "Pater. Manet."

"Send me back, Cecil."

"NON."

"Send. Me. Back."

"NON."

"Love you. Boundaries. Send me back."

Cecil's lip wobbled. The air shimmered. Taine disappeared.

A flight attendant appeared in the aisle, her expression caught between professional concern and genuine confusion. "Sir, is everything okay? I thought I saw a man in—"

"Nothing," Charlie said quickly. "Just a reflection. Very reflective plane. You know."

The flight attendant stared at him. Then at Cecil. Then back at Charlie.

"Very reflective," she repeated.

"Yes."

She moved on. She was not paid enough for this.

Matt, from behind, had captured it all on his phone. "This is going in the family archives. 'Cecil Summons His Father Mid-Flight.' It's going to go viral."

Simon grabbed his arm. "Matt. Put the phone away."

"Never."

---

At the back of the plane, an entirely different kind of chaos was unfolding.

Arthur the Mothman was in his seat, sweating profusely, his trench coat now unbuttoned to reveal the faint shimmer of wings beneath. He was trying very hard to be invisible. He was failing.

Beside him, Victor the Gargoyle was in the second seat, belt buckled, looking deeply uncomfortable. He was made of solid stone. The airline seat groaned beneath him.

Victor: "This chair is inadequate."

"Shh," Arthur hissed. "We're hiding."

"I am not hiding. I am sitting. There is a difference."

"There really isn't."

"I don't like sitting. My joints are getting stiff."

"Just—keep—quiet—"

The flight attendant passed by, paused, and glanced at them. Arthur's moth-dust output tripled. Victor stared back at the flight attendant with the intense, unblinking gaze of a gargoyle who was done being discreet.

The flight attendant moved on.

Victor: "See? I told you. The glamour is holding, as far as anyone is concerened we are just the Finklestiens."

Arthur: "I don't think that means what you think it means. We are on the run from the Bureau of Containment… and I am sure that short ginger man up the front of the plane is Ministry…" He nodded towards where Simon was sitting sipping a coke and watching Love Actually on the little screen in front of him being annoyed by a short guy with big ears and a phone camera.

Arthur was sweating. He had been sweating since the check-in desk, and he was not going to stop any time soon. The moth-dust was accumulating on his seat, on the floor, on Victor's bag.

Victor, from his seat, was making his displeasure known. "Arthur. The dust. It's getting into my crevices."

Arthur made a sound that was half-sigh, half-prayer. "We're on a plane. We're in the air. We're safe."

"We are not safe. We are in a metal tube surrounded by humans who would scream if they saw your wings."

"They won't see my wings. I have a trench coat."

"A trench coat that you are sweating through."

Arthur looked down. The trench coat was, indeed, starting to look suspiciously damp. He crossed his arms, hoping to hide the worst of it.

"The flight attendant is coming," Victor observed. "Try not to panic."

"I'm not panicking."

"Arthur, you're vibrating."

Arthur stopped vibrating. "We're fine. If he asks we’re just on our second honeymoon. That's all."

Victor made a sound that suggested he did not believe this. "You're also here because you're terrified of offending your mother."

Arthur's moth-dust output tripled. "My mother has nothing to do with this."

"She named you Arthur because she wanted you to be a king, and you became an illegal union rep."

"She just wanted me to have a stable career. There's nothing wrong with that."

"You're a Mothman, Arthur. You're supposed to be terrifying. Not terrified."

Arthur closed his eyes and counted to ten. "We're here to observe the strike. That's all. Just observe."

The flight attendant passed by. Arthur's eyes snapped open. He smiled. It was not a reassuring smile.

The flight attendant moved on.

Victor: "You smiled at her."

"I was being polite."

"You were being creepy."

Arthur put his head in his hands and groaned.

---

The plane taxied onto the runway.

Cecil was still sulking, arms crossed, refusing to look at anyone. Charlie had given up trying to engage him. He'd learned that sometimes, the only thing to do was let Cecil process his big feelings in his own time.

The engines roared. The plane accelerated. The wheels left the ground.

Cecil's eyes widened. He looked out the window. The ground was falling away. The cars were shrinking. The airport was disappearing.

"Pater—" he started.

"Taine is in Florida," Charlie said gently. "But look. We're in the sky. We're flying. You’ve always wanted to fly on an aeroplane."

Cecil was silent for a long moment. Then, very quietly: "Pater. Volo." (Father. I want.)

"I know. I want him too. But we have this time together. That's something, isn't it?"

Cecil turned to look at him. His eyes were still wet, but the fury had faded. He reached up and touched Charlie's face, a gesture that was so gentle, so ancient, so Cecil.

"Paterculus." (Little Daddy.)

Charlie smiled. "Yeah. I'm here. Do you want to watch Bluey?"

Cecil brightened immensely and nodded his assent.

---

The plane levelled out. The seatbelt sign went off. A cheer went through the cabin.

Cecil was still watching the window, his tiny face pressed against the glass. He was looking at the clouds now, the endless blue sky, the sun reflecting off the wing.

"Sunt nubes," he said. (There are clouds.)

"Yes, buddy. Those are clouds."

"Pater videt haec?" (Does Father see these?)

Charlie's heart clenched. "I don't know. Maybe. The sky over Florida is probably very similar."

Cecil considered this. He was quiet for a moment, his ancient eyes tracking the clouds as they slid past. Then he pointed at a particularly fluffy one.

"Illa nubes Pater similis est." (That cloud looks like Father.)

Charlie followed his gaze. The cloud was formless, a white blob against the blue. "Does it?"

"Ita. Parvam et rotundam." (Yes. Small and round.)

Charlie laughed. "Taine's not small and round."

"In nube est." (In the cloud, he is.)

"Fair enough."

Cecil was quiet again. His hand had found Charlie's, his tiny fingers gripping tight.

"Paterculus." (Little Daddy.)

"Yes?"

"Tu mihi places." (I like you.)

Charlie's throat tightened. "I like you too, buddy. A lot."

"Etiam, Tainem amo." (Also, I love Taine.)

"I know you do. I love him too."

"Sed tu es hic." (But you are here.)

"Yes. I'm here."

Cecil nodded, as if this settled something important. Then he turned back to the window.

---

The flight continued. The sun rose higher. The Caribbean grew closer.

And then the plane began to descend.

Cecil pressed his face against the window, his ancient eyes wide with something that might have been wonder. The sea was below them now—turquoise and blue, dotted with tiny islands.

"Mare," he breathed. (Sea.)

"Yes, buddy. That's the sea."

"Magnum est." (It is big.)

"Very big."

The plane touched down. The passengers erupted into applause, the kind of relieved celebration that only came after a long flight. Matt was filming again. Simon was trying to wrestle his binder out of the overhead bin. Mr. Hartley was already grumbling about customs.

Charlie scooped Cecil up and carried him down the aisle.

The airport was small, open-air, with fans spinning lazily on the ceiling. The air was warm and humid, carrying the scent of flowers and salt.

And then they saw the resort staff.

They were all wearing matching yellow polo shirts. They were all smiling. They were all holding signs that said "WELCOME TO PARADISE!" in cheerful letters.