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Humiliated, I turn around and creep back into Sunny’s room to gather the rest of my things. I catch sight of myself in a mirror. My hair’s a mess. There’s an angry mosquito bite on my neck. I don’t look in the mirror for long because there’s only so much evidence that I’m lacking I want to see before breakfast.

Once I’m dressed and have my things gathered, I take one last look at Sunny. He’s beautiful in that utterly careless and unfair way some men are. Strong and easy-smiling, all lean muscle and sun-browned skin. Packed with a charm he doesn’t have to think about.

He belongs here, in this clubhouse, making bets about women’s orgasms.

I belong in rooms with flickering fluorescent lights and a spectrophotometer.

And that’s okay, I reassure myself with a breath.

I do not need to be in Sunny’s physical league. I have a doctorate. I take comfort in field data. I have a working knowledge of hydrology and contaminant pathways and wetland plant stress.

I raise my hand in a silent goodbye and then head to my camper. It’s in the garage and, somehow, already has a new window. There is a prospect by the door, his feet up on two crates.

“Do you know who has my keys?” I ask.

He jumps off the stool, surprised by my presence. “You’re leaving?”

We both look to the sun just breaking over the horizon. “Yes. Keys, please.”

“I should just call Sunny to make sure he⁠—”

“The vehicle is mine and the keys are mine. My time is mine, and you are currently wasting it when I have places to be. So please get me my keys.”

I stand my ground, even as my knees shake.

By the time I reach the university an hour later, my eyes feel gritty from the lack of sleep. I tug the two coolers of samples out of the back of my camper. Then, I load up my canvas field bag, my empty laptop bag, the coolers, and the brittle remains of my dignity, and walk to my lab.

The biology building is a masterclass in beige concrete and institutional neglect.

But it’s familiar.

Home.

The only place I’ve ever felt I belonged.

Unlike the Outlaws’ clubhouse, with its battered leather couches, stale beer smell, and men who take personal offense to the rules everyone else lives by.

A small piece of me wishes I was still in Sunny’s bed, with his warm arm heavy across my waist and his mouth soft against the back of my shoulder. In the moment, it felt as though I was something precious instead of temporary. Before I heard some woman and man laugh behind a half-closed door about how I’m a pity fuck and how Sunny probably felt sorry for me, obviously.

Home is here, where the lobby smells faintly of bleach and a fluorescent light flickers above the donor plaque wall where names in brushed metal gleam beside crisp photographs. The irony is none of them donated enough to replace the freezer on the third floor that screams like a dying animal when the compressor kicks in.

My lab occupies a corner suite that was once advertised as the Coastal Systems Research Unit. The lettering on the door is peeling, and someone used tape to put the S back in Systems when it fell off last May.

Inside, two graduate assistants look up from opposite benches, equally as surprised to see me as I am to see them.

“You’re alive,” Mina says.

“Apparently, yes, I am. You two are in early.” I set the first cooler down with more force than required.

Mina has safety goggles pushed into her hair, making her bangs stand out at funny angles. Evan sits at the ancient desktop that runs our spectrophotometer. His dark hair is tamed, and there’s a rip in the seam of his lab coat. In the background, the radio host talks about the CranFex deal.

“They say there’s gonna be two hundred homes, plus infrastructure,” Mina says. “But we all know it’s gonna be waterfront condos, which become vacation homes, that lead to gentrification pushing locals out. Which will lead to increased pollution in those waterways.”

That’s the topic of Mina’s research. To see if we can be more effective at assessing the long-term environmental impact of development that affects the Everglades.

“You think the Velaro Coastal Group bid would have been better?” Evan asks as he walks to the locked equipment cupboard.

She shakes her head. “They’re all as bad as one another. It’s profits, first. They’ll all dodge as many environmental provisions as they can. Although, I am going to run their bid through my model.”