“You know what, Malcolm? You and your damn agenda are starting to get on my goddamn nerves.” She steps forward. “You got one more time to talk to me like that. Do that again and I will intentionally wreck all your shit. I’m not your fucking doormat.”

“Joy—”

“Don’t you Joy me. Go apologize to Fox. Right now.” She points to where they’re standing.

The golf cart driver looks from Malcolm to Joy and back again. “I’d already be over there if I was you,” he mutters. He’s an older Black man, sitting behind the wheel wearing a tan uniform.

Malcolm regards Joy for a few moments, gaze steely and unwavering. Joy knows that look—he has something to say and he’s weighing whether or not it’s worth pissing her off more to make his point.

“You really don’t want to try me today,” Joy seethes. “You really, truly don’t.”

That last threat did it—the scales tipped in her favor. Malcolm drops his gaze, saying, “Fine.” He marches over to the others, steps stiff and hands balled at his sides.

“Whew,” the driver says. “You remind me of my wife. He must not know how close he was to death right then.”

Joy tries to calm down, laughing softly. “It’s not a side I let out often.” It’s hard to reconcile how powerful the heat of the moment feels, where you’re nothing but raw, reckless rage. Fighting with people she loves always gives her the worst anxiety spirals. Stuck for hours, sometimes days, reliving every harsh word, cold stare, and idle threat. Suffering through her brain painting her as an even worse person, making her believe she said more than she really had.

She’ll apologize to Malcolm sooner or later. Sometimes it’s better to let her threats sit so the memory lingers and he’ll think twice before talking to her like that again.

When she rejoins her group, Summer is calm and sunny once more, Malcolm seems to be grappling with remorse, and Fox looks stable. He’s the one who says, “Are we ready to go? Joy?”

She nods.

“Our carriage awaits.” Fox takes her by the hand, interlocking their fingers. Joy glances up at him just as he looks down at her. “This still okay?”

“It’s more than that,” she says, feeling too somber to smile. “Wait, don’t tell me you’re afraid of golf carts?”

“We’ll be in a moving vehicle with no doors, no seatbelts, or any kind of shocks to speak of. You should be too.”

Like the helicopter, each cart only seats two people so they have to take separate ones. Their driver is a younger Mexican man with a generous smile. “Welcome to Glass Bead,” he says.