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Even though I’m not facing Quint anymore, I squeeze my eyes shut. “Where did your clothes go?”

There’s a moment of silence, and then—Quint loses it. His laughter comes on strong, and it doesn’t stop. I frown, listening to his guffaws, his howls, his gasps for air.

After a while, my surprise and embarrassment start to give way to annoyance.

Bracing myself, I turn just enough so I can glare at him over my shoulder. Quint doesn’t seem to notice. He’s fallen against the wall and is struggling to breathe. He has tears on his face. Honest-to-goodness tears.

“Sorry,” he gasps, once he’s managed to bring his hysteria under control. “Just—your face! Oh my god, Pru.” He wipes the tears away. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to freak you out. But… I mean, you’ve seen guys without shirts before, right? You’ve been to the beach?”

“That’s different!” I stomp my foot. Petulantly. Immaturely. I don’t care.Why is he almost naked?

There’s still a distant amusement lingering on Quint’s face, but at least he seems to be done laughing at me. “How is it different?” he says, clearly teasing me.

Because it just is,I want to say.

Because they’re notyou.

I clear my throat. “You just surprised me. It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“You’re not scarred for life?”

“Remains to be seen.”

I turn back to him, but can’t bring myself to meet his eye. I find myself staring at the satiricalJawsposter instead. “So, where did your clothes go, exactly?”

“The dryer. I was just heading upstairs to grab some volunteer shirts for us.”

Oooh. The dryer. I wilt with relief to hear such a practical explanation. We use the washer and dryer daily for the animals’ blankets and towels, but it didn’t occur to me to use it forus.

“Right. Okay. Good idea.”

Quint hands me a towel and I start drying my hair.

“I’ll go get those shirts,” he says. I can still hear the occasional chuckle as he heads up the stairs.

I make my way to the small utility room with the washer and dryer and close the door behind me. Peeling off my wet shirt and jeans is like peeling off a second skin. My bra and underwear are damp, too, but I can live with that. I toss my things into the dryer. They land on top of Quint’s shirt and pants. Criminy, this is weird. I start blushing all over again.

I grab a new towel from the shelf and wrap it around my body sarong-style. Then I start the dryer and stand there, listening to it rumble and thud, wondering what to do now. I am not going to go strutting around Quint in nothing but a towel, but it will be at least half an hour before our clothes are dry.

The second I have this thought, the lights flicker.

I glance up.

They flicker again—then go out.

I’m plunged into darkness so thick, it feels like I’ve been sucked into a black hole. The dryer whines to a stop. Our heavy, damp clothes thud down one last time. An eerie silence falls over the center, broken only by the torrential rains that continue to pound against the side of the building and the occasional unhappy barks of the animals.

“Prudence?”

Gripping the towel, I open the door and peek my head out into the corridor. Quint is moving toward me, illuminated by the flashlight feature on his cell phone. He’s put on a shirt, thankfully, but still has the towel around his waist.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah. The power…”

“I know. Here.” He hands me a yellow T-shirt.

“Is there a generator?”