2. Wondie Says Hydrate
WONDIE SAYS HYDRATE
GRACE
WonderSphere is the loneliest place on earth and it's not even trying.
The main plaza stretches out like a postcard after the people got recalled for safety reasons. But here's the thing. The park isn't empty. Not really. There are people in the buildings, behind glass, hunkered down in the restaurants and gift shops like animals in terrariums.
The churro cart is also sitting in full view of every glass-fronted shelter, so I abandon it temporarily.
In the big sit-down restaurant near the fountain, staff are moving around, distributing water bottles, pulling chairs together. Someone in a WonderSphere polo is standing at the door like a bouncer, arms crossed, walkie in hand. Keeping people in. Or keeping something out. Hard to tell from here.
Nobody's on the paths. Nobody's on the rides.
The fast mountain in the distance is frozen mid-track with an empty train dangling on the first hill.
The carousel is still lit up, horses bobbing gently in the breeze because someone left it in idle mode, and it's rotating with absolutely no one on it, which is the creepiest thing I've seen today.
The speaker system is still cycling. Every three minutes, a smooth prerecorded voice announces that the Celestial Bay Dolphin Experience has been temporarily paused and WonderSphere apologizes for the inconvenience.
I should walk into the burger place or the frozen yogurt stand and join the other terrarium people and sit on the floor and eat fries and wait for someone official to tell me what to do.
I don't because Craig definitely called security and security is definitely checking the buildings and I'm definitely a wanted woman right now.
Not wanted in the sexy way. If I walk into one of those buildings, someone in a polo shirt is going to ask me for a ticket I don't have and then I'm going to get escorted back to the parking lot.
No. I need to get deeper into the park, where there are more places to duck into that aren't full of organized, supervised, accounted-for people.
But first, supplies.
The gift shop on the east side of the plaza is unlocked and, more importantly, unstaffed. The lights are on. The kind of music that's designed to make you feel relaxed while spending forty-two dollars on a keychain is playing from a speaker in the ceiling.
I walk in and the anti-theft gates beep at me and my heart launches itself into my throat before I realize it's just a little electronic "welcome" from a machine that doesn't know the world is ending.
"Thank you," I say to the sensor gates.
Okay. What does a WonderSphere gift shop have that constitutes survival supplies?
I grab a tote bag from a rack near the door.
It's canvas, turquoise, with Wondie the Sphere wearing sunglasses and giving a thumbs up and the words WONDER NEVER STOPS printed underneath in a font that's trying very hard.
This is my survival bag now. Wondie is my copilot, which feels legally troubling but emotionally correct.
I move through the aisles with the efficiency of a woman who's never been efficient at anything but is highly motivated by fear and churros.
Snacks: a rack of trail mix bags, a display of chocolate-covered pretzels, two sleeves of shortbread cookies shaped like dolphins, a bag of gummy sharks.
Water: a cooler near the register with overpriced bottles. I take four. I don't feel great about not paying but I also don't feel great about dehydrating to death in a theme park so we'll call it a moral wash.
Poncho: they have rain ponchos in little plastic pouches near the sunscreen. I take two. One for wearing, one for... I don't know. Emergency tarp. Surrender flag. The options are wide open.
Glow sticks: a bucket of them near the toy section. I grab a handful and shove them in the tote because if the power goes out I refuse to be in the dark. I'll be in a neon green glow and I'll be visible from space and I don't care.
Foam stabby fork: this one is from the Celestial Bay merchandise section.
It's got a price tag of twenty-eight dollars which is criminal for a piece of foam on a plastic stick but it's the closest thing to a weapon in this store and I'm taking it.
It has glitter in the handle. I'm not going to think about that.
I'm standing in the apparel section loading a sweatshirt into my bag when I realize I should call my mom.
I pull out my phone. Twenty-six percent. I need to be strategic about this but also she's probably watching the news and if I don't call her she's going to assume I'm dead and then she's going to post something premature on Facebook and I'll be a memorial before I've even missed a meal.
She picks up on the first ring. "Grace Marie."
Full name. She's been watching the news.
"Hi, Mom. I'm fine. I'm safe. I'm at WonderSphere."
"Grace, why are you at a theme park during a…"
"It has walls, Mom. Big ones. And a roof. Multiple roofs. I'm behind walls and roofs and I have water and snacks and a foam stabby fork."
"A foam what?"
"It's a weapon."
She pauses. I hear her TV in the background, the low murmur of a news anchor saying things I don't want to hear from this end of the phone.
"Is Biscuit okay?" I ask.
"Biscuit's sitting on the remote and I can't change the channel and I've been watching the same coverage for an hour because the cat won't move."
"Don't move the cat. Let her have the remote. She's stressed."
"She's stressed? Grace, I'm watching buildings…"
"Mom, are you safe?"
"I'm home. Doors are locked. Mrs. Patterson from next door came over with her little dog and a casserole, so apparently this is a casserole situation."
"Stay with Mrs. Patterson and eat the casserole and don't open the door for anyone who isn't Mrs. Patterson."
"Grace."
"Mom, I'm fine. I promise. I'm in possibly the safest building in the county. It was built to hold sixty thousand people and right now it's holding maybe a few hundred, so mathematically I'm crushing this emergency."
She's quiet for a second. "Are you wearing a jacket? They keep those places freezing."
I look down at the sweatshirt in my hand. It's a WonderSphere hoodie, navy blue, size large because they didn't have my size and swimming in fabric is better than shivering. It has Wondie on the front doing finger guns.
"I'm getting one right now, Mom."
"Get an extra one. You always underestimate how cold you get."
"Okay, Mom."
"And something to eat that isn't just sugar."
"I have trail mix."
"Real food, Grace."
"Trail mix is real food, it has raisins, raisins are a fruit."
"Raisins are a disappointment, get something with protein."
I pull another sweatshirt off the rack. It's light pink with a sparkly Wondie giving a peace sign. I put it in the tote bag. When this is over, my mother is getting a WonderSphere sweatshirt whether she wants one or not.
I also grab a snow globe from the display by the register. It's got a little WonderSphere castle inside and nothing bad happens inside snow globes. Mom collects them. Has a whole shelf. She'll need a new one after this.
"Mom, I have to go. My phone's dying."
"Call me when you can charge it. I love you. Be careful. Don't trip."
She says that every time I leave anywhere. Don't trip. Like it's a choice.
"I love you too. Kiss Biscuit for me. I'll call you when I find a phone charger."
I hang up. Twenty-two percent now. Four percent spent on hearing my mother's voice. Worth it.
I pull the Wondie hoodie over my head. It smells like new fabric and retail air conditioning and normal life. The sleeves hang past my fingers, and the stabby fork has to be strapped to the outside of the overloaded tote. Mom told me to wear a sweatshirt, so I'm wearing one. Now I need to move.
Craig's security people are going to sweep this plaza eventually.
I head for the walkway that leads toward the fish part. I'm sure WonderSphere has a better name for it, probably something involving dreams or tides or a registered trademark, but there's a whale on the sign and I'm being hunted by polo shirts.
So, fish part.
It's the closest zone to the main plaza so I don't have to cross a lot of open space. Plus, the sign says it has an aquarium and aquariums have big thick walls and small dark rooms. If I'm going to hide from security, I want to hide somewhere with mood lighting and fish.
The walkway curves past another churro cart. Unattended. Warmer still on. Churros sitting in the little metal cradle, golden and sugar-dusted and completely abandoned.
I stop, take two churros, put one in the tote bag, and keep walking because my name is Grace and I've never once lived up to it but I'm inside, supplied, and eating a churro in the apocalypse. I've had worse Thursdays.
The walkway narrows ahead, flanked by fake rock formations and misting machines that are still pumping out a fine cool fog. Beyond that, the aquarium building looms, all curved blue glass and wave-shaped architecture and a big sign with a cartoon whale saying DIVE INTO WONDER!
Behind me, across the plaza, I hear a walkie-talkie crackle. Then footsteps. The kind that belong to people wearing comfortable shoes and lanyards and the focused expression of someone who's been told to find a woman with a fruit-shaped purse.
I shove the rest of the churro in my mouth and walk faster.
The misting machines hit me as I enter the corridor and I slip on the wet tile. My feet go out from under me and I sit down hard on the walkway, tote bag clanking.
I sit there for exactly two seconds.
Then I get up. I wipe the sugar off my chin, hoist the tote bag onto my shoulder, and disappear into the fish part before the authority scooters and their little judgment baskets can round the corner.
Behind me, the speakers chirp one more time: "Wondie says: stay hydrated!"
"I know, Wondie."
Then something knocks from a building behind me.
Slow. Wet.
I look at my stabby fork.
"This is your moment. Don't embarrass me."