She nods. “There’s a gift shop in each of the five buildings—this one’s right there, see it? And there are several different shops located at the Lagoon Tower.”

I thank her and trudge off toward the gift shop that’s closest, where the offering of women’s bathing suits turns out to be a single rack of two-pieces, which definitely won’t work. My bare stomach is no one else’s business but mine. My mind drifts back to Leo, his bedroom, Michael Phelps judging me from above, but I jerk my attention back to the business at hand. Focus. Shopping. None of these suits are in my size. I walk to the Palace Tower, the next building over, but it’s the same story there.

The walk to the Promenade takes longer. I could catch the tram, but it seems lazy to ride between buildings in one hotel, and by walking I’m less likely to run into anybody who knows me from the conference and get held up making awkward conversation.

At the Promenade there’s another small store off the front lobby, and this one has one-pieces, but only stocks smalls and mediums.

This is discrimination, I think, annoyed. I’m wasting all this beautiful time to myself on a quest that’s starting to feel impossible. What if I can’t find a swimsuit? Pop said it would be easy, but what if it’s only easy for men like Pop? What if nobody on this island has ever conceived of a female being a size large?

I could go in my underwear, like I did at Leo’s pool that day. I have a black bra and briefs that I might be able to get away with. But that would be like wearing a two-piece, which we’ve already established is a no-go, and besides, people would probably be able to tell. Mom definitely wouldn’t be too keen on the idea of me walking around in front of all of her esteemed colleagues in my bra and panties.

I could wear a shirt over it, I consider. And shorts. But regular clothes in the water would feel uncomfortable and gross.

Desperate now, I take the tram to the Lagoon Tower. When I get off the train there’s a large set of stairs leading down to the spa and the cultural center, a sign helpfully informs me. The cultural center is where Afton and Abby are learning hula. I check my phone; about thirty minutes have passed since I last saw my sisters. I don’t know how long the class is. I’m overcome by the panicky feeling that they’re going to come bounding up the stairs at any moment, and then Afton will dump Abby off on me and leave me exactly where I started.

I duck into a shop—the girl was right; there are several shops here. I don’t even really care which one.