PARADISE PARADOX (#1 PARADISE ISLAND duology)

-- five --

The only other thing the mystery woman had added to her cryptic warning was that her name was Ms. Milla Moreno. But she didn't linger for explanations. Miles tried to grab her wrist, and Kera begged her to come back—but she flurried to the rear of the plane as if she'd never stopped to speak to them at all.

Kera and Miles exchanged a worried glance, and peered over at Vick, who was snoring his way into a lengthy slumber.

Miles shrugged, as if completely unaffected by what Ms. Moreno had said; though moments ago he'd appeared just as worried as Kera.

"She's trying to spook us." He returned to his magazine. "There's no way they got our parents to sign waivers without speaking to us first. I piss my parents off daily, but they still love me." He side-glanced at Kera, who'd remained stuck in place, shocked by the professor's words. "And yours still love you. Don't let her shit get to you."

Kera wanted to agree with him, but a part of her couldn't help wondering if this Ms. Moreno knew more than she let on, and if what she said was true. And if it was true, what kind of psychotic post-apocalyptic insanity had Kera landed into?

It's no use fixating on this now. They'll have to give us answers eventually.

Many students complained about the electronics ban, but it didn't bother Kera as much. She'd wanted to reach out to her parents, but otherwise, she got on fine without most modern handheld appliances.

Uninspired for her research paper—who knew if she'd be able to turn it in?—she opted for drawing, instead.

In the afternoons and evenings when she sat across from the cafeteria and people-watched, she also sketched. Plants, trees, landscapes, mostly. She had a few rough drafts she'd started a few days ago, and felt that working on those would divert her negative thoughts, anchor her in a world of pencils and colors and imagination.

She got so lost in her artistic dimension that she jumped from her seat when Miles nudged her, a few minutes later.

"Yo," he said, tucking his magazine into his backpack. "We're landing."

Kera squinted at him. "Didn't we take off only an hour or so ago?"

Miles tightened his seatbelt. "You've been zoned out in your drawing for easily an hour, actually." He snuck a glimpse at what she'd been working on—a meadow of lavender and lilac—and grinned, his face illuminating in admiration. "Hey, that's great. Why aren't you majoring in art? You write, you draw—"

The plane rattled through a heavy bout of turbulence, cutting Miles off, and prompting Kera to grip her armrests and forget about interrogating him on how he'd known what her major was or wasn't.

She traveled little, and didn't enjoy plane-rides in the slightest. Tremors such as these—intense back-and-forth rattling, overhead compartments clicking, opening, snapping shut, grunts of displeasure from other travelers—were part of her most vivid nightmares.

Miles, who was calm despite the shakiness of the aircraft, patted her hand and offered her a shy smile. "It's fine. We're going to an island, yeah? This is common when approaching islands, from my experience." He sat comfortably, limbs loose, unbothered by the turbulence. Not a sheen of sweat on his perfect face, not a glimmer of fright in his eyes. No hint of worry, of panic that the airplane might crash.

Kera, on the other hand, held on to the armrests so tight her arms were sore. Her legs had cramped up, and her toes curled in her shoes. Perspiration gathered on her temples, dripping down to her cheeks as she imagined all sorts of catastrophic scenarios. The more the plane shook, the more outcomes popped into her mind; zooming straight into the water, exploding in air, crashing into a forest, being gunned down by a passing military craft—