They indulged the way children of their status always did. The toys adorned with gold, too large and too loud, inseparable in their youth, in their wealth.

Never isolated, their laughter would sink into the sand of the secluded islands named after them, bare feet buried in the abyss of promises to never endure loneliness. If only they knew then what they knew now.

"Too slow!"
"We were meant to be here an hour ago."
"It was Tracey—"
"You shut it, Ella, I wasn’t the one desperate for whiskey."
"This has nothing to do with me!"
"Roddy has no right to speak."
"Neither does Amycus."
"I’m carrying someone, your opinion doesn’t matter."
"Ella, put a leash on your dog."
"Put a leash on yours!"
"I have a leash on mine."
"Will you guys just—"

And in unison.

"Shut up, Aya." 

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