The corners of Lydia's mouth twitch upward slightly. "Fine," she concedes. "I'll put it in a lockbox. In case of murder fish."

When Fiona continues she looks, for a second, like she really wants to ask. Because if she has to punt her cellphone into the ocean when they get back to reality, it's probably better to know that now. Begin the separation process.

Lydia looks out into the sea of freakishly oversized everything and tilts her head, assessing. (Seriously, flowers at this person-size:flower-size ratio? Bad. It's like being in a funeral home.) This is a hot mess on a whole new scale. "True love?"