daynight by Megan Thomason

has been about tonight?” I ask. His eyes sparkle and his lips form into a smile.
    “What flirting?” he says, running each hand down his opposite arm as if to deflect the accusation. “You were the one flirting with me and that started before they told us about Cleaving, which is what gave me the idea.” I roll my eyes and shake my head. Barraging him with questions equals flirting? Maybe it was the falling asleep on his shoulder? If anything, he’s been doing the flirting. Not me. Though I can tell no amount of discussion would be sufficient for him to admit the effort was lopsided in his direction.  
    “Whatever,” I respond. “Fine, I’ll go along with your little charade , but only because I want answers and you’re the only person I can talk to about it. But I don’t care how much they want it to happen, I’m not Cleaving anyone, much less someone as clearly full of themselves as you are.” He chuckles, and then looks at his watch before tapping on it.
    “Five minutes,” he says. “Race you. Last one to the top has to initiate the first kiss.” Kiss? Dream on, buddy. He then sprints up the hill, leaving me behind. I march slowly and steadily, reaching the top with a minute to spare, amazed at the number of lizards that appear to sunbathe in the morning light.
    “You lose,” he quips.
    “Works for me. That way a kiss will never happen,” I whisper in his ear, and then skip to the double doors where our escort awaits, probably to return us to our suite and lock us in. I say to the man, “Thanks for the free time. The nighttime lights and the sunrise were just incredible. What’s next?”
    “Ms. Donovan, here’s a compass, as requested.” I look at him incredulously given I’d only asked the tablet and video-man for proof. “Go ahead, check for yourself,” he says. I grimace, but return to the railing and look at the sun in relation to the direction noted on the compass. Indeed, I’m facing south and the sun just rose to my right, which is west. No way. Maybe they rigged the compass?  
    “It’s not rigged. You are no longer on Earth, Ms. Donovan,” the man says, walking up behind me, reading my thoughts. “So perhaps you can focus less on disproving the assertion that you’ve left Earth and more on learning about Thera?” If I had any question my device was monitored, I no longer do.  
    “OK, fine,” I say. “We’re not on Earth. We’re on Thera. We traveled here through a magic portal.”
    “It’s not magic,” he refutes. “There’s just not an explanation that can be explained by conventional science.”
    “I’ll take your word for it. Thanks for the compass,” I say, not wanting to discuss it any further.  
    “Let me show you back to your suite and the two of you can have dinner before retiring to bed,” he says. “We’ve left a bottle of sleep aids for you in the kitchen. I can’t emphasize how crucial it is for you to adjust to the new timing and avoid napping during training sessions.” I recoil slightly, wondering if his chastisement is sufficient, or if I’ll face more extreme consequences.
    “I’m sorry. I really did try to stay awake because I didn’t want to miss any material. Hopefully after a good night’s—or I guess good day’s—sleep I should be good.” Blake is by my side, but letting me do all the chitchatting.
    “Adjustment is difficult,” the man agrees. “You’ll both go to the clinic again in the evening. Your doctors may be able to help.” I’d already suppressed the memories of our clinic visit, but they come gushing back and I shudder.
    “Super,” I say. “Do we just visit the clinic every evening this week, or every night that we’re here?” I ask, trying to sound merely inquisitive and not horribly annoyed. It’s not the man’s fault that I have to be poked and prodded.
    “As often as the doctors determine is needed for you to adjust and prevent future difficulties,” he says.
    “So, does that mean bad stuff can