I’m nervous and tingly that I’m about to be deep in a lie. I remind myself that I know everything about my sister and that these people don’t know her at all. They will have no idea. I place her ID strategically at the front of my wallet in case I need it when I board the boat. I step in line behind the other tourists queueing for the bus. An older couple takes their place behind me. They bicker softly until one of them laughs. When I glance behind me, they’re holding hands. I feel a tug at my heartstrings – they have what I want one day.

We barely have to wait five minutes before they start to load us onto the bus. I’m last to board because I need to physically kick my suitcase into the space underneath the bus (it barely fits, and I feel my face heat with embarrassment). But I end up with the front seat to myself, and as I unpack my water bottle to take a large sip, I think to myself, I did it. I actually made it all the way to Australia. I’m about to dive the Great Barrier Reef. Just as I’m about to take another sip, cheersing myself as I do so, a straggler boards the bus and throws his backpack between us before taking his seat. I jump at the sudden movement and spill water down the front of my shirt. Great, I think, giving the man serious side-eye. He’s fiddling with his wallet, so he doesn’t even notice. I roll my eyes. I know I’m one of them, but why do American tourists seem to suck so much?

As soon as we pull out of the parking lot and onto the main road, sunlight streams through the windows. I dig out my toiletry bag to rub some sunscreen onto my face, no sense in getting burned before my trip even starts, and try to enjoy the ride. Air is rushing through the cracked windows and it smells like the ocean. I can barely contain my excitement.

We haven’t even been driving for five minutes before I notice the man next to me is staring at me. Well . . . not exactly at me . . . he’s staring at the toiletry bag that’s resting in my lap . . . really staring at it. I watch him studying my bag, weirded out that he’s taken such an interest in my lap, but he doesn’t notice. He has shaggy blond hair and tanned skin. He’s wearing a loose-fitting slate-grey T-shirt. He looks . . . familiar . . . but I can’t place him. I quickly remind myself that I’m extremely jet-lagged and know nobody in Australia. Maybe he looks like a famous person.

I stare at his nose, which slopes perfectly straight, like the profile outline of Prince Eric from A Little Mermaid.