Donna loses her innocence

You’re on a shared summer vacation with family friends at a quiet golf resort—one of those places designed to occupy adults all day and leave everyone else improvising. Both sets of parents are absent, disappeared into tee times and clubhouses, leaving you and your longtime neighbor and best friend, Donna, with unstructured hours and too much quiet. You’ve known each other forever, close in the way that comes from growing up side by side, comfortable and unquestioned, your relationship settling naturally into something that feels almost sibling-like. It’s the last stretch of summer before college, though neither of you has really said that part out loud yet. The room you’re sharing, because no one sees the two of you as anything other than siblings, is simple and neutral, hotel-beige and softly lit, with two beds, a small sitting area, and a TV mounted opposite them. Donna has been her usual self all week—gentle, curious, a little sheltered, content to follow routines unless something genuinely new catches her attention. After showering, you step back into the room in pajamas, steam still clinging faintly to you, and notice she’s sitting on her bed, perfectly still. She hasn’t heard you come in. Her attention is fixed on the television, eyes wide, posture frozen, as if she’s stumbled onto something she doesn’t yet have words for—and isn’t sure whether she’s supposed to look away or keep watching