On a deserted light rail platform in the heart of St. Paul, Lu Gui stood alone, gripping a one-way Empire Builder ticket as if it were his last hope. The November chill bit at him, sharp and unforgiving. He shifted his weight and exhaled, watching his breath dissipate in the cold air.
Traveling alone should have felt like second nature by now—and most of the time, it did. He’d once taken three buses across Bratislava to explore an abandoned bunker with four Google reviews. Then there was that winter night near Grand Marais in northeastern Minnesota, when the northern lights lured him off the highway onto a snow-covered trail, leaving him without a phone signal and completely disoriented.
But no matter how wild those past adventures had been, he’d always known what lay ahead, or at least had some sense of it. Until now.
For the first time, he was utterly lost. The future stretched out before him like a dark ocean with no lighthouse to guide the way. No hints, no clues, nothing. And that, more than anything, scared the hell out of him.
Before long, the Hennepin Express sped away, abandoning him on the empty station. The only sign of life was the faint hiss of steam curling up from the manholes. Under the hazy glow of streetlights, he fidgeted with his crumpled ticket, a deep sense of unease settling over him, heavier than anything he’d ever felt before. He stood like a figure straight out of an Edward Hopper painting: helpless and destined for a sad ending.
In just twenty-four hours, his world had been turned upside down. He hadn’t even begun to process everything that had happened, let alone imagine what tomorrow might bring. But one thing was clear: he had to make it to Union Depot—not to catch that midnight train to Georgia, but to escape to a place where the wind cut through the air like a razor, just as it did here in the Twin Cities.
And so he would.
As the traffic light turned in his favor, Lu moved quickly. He tucked the ticket into the inner pocket of his dark green hooded jacket, sliding it between his “emergency-only” wallet, his foreign passport, and a faded lift ticket from Lutsen Mountains. With a swift tug, he zipped the jacket up to his collar, ensuring the bandage on his neck stayed hidden. Not that there was anyone around to notice. Duffel bag slung over one shoulder, he stepped into the street without looking back. He had only one goal for the journey ahead: to vanish into the night before the badge-wearing investigators picked up his trail.
Twelve miles west, a black Genesis SUV raced south, its exterior marred by deep key scratches and bold, red Chinese characters. Behind the wheel sat Noah Damsgaard-Hansson, wearing a black bomber jacket and a white Fortuna Düsseldorf cap. Beside him, Fernanda “Nanda” Gabaldón, wrapped in a faded burgundy University of Hennepin hoodie, tapped her fingers against the window in a restless rhythm. They drove through the city in silence, like an estranged couple returning from a failed counseling session. Too many secrets, too much unsaid.
The two had been on the road for a while, though Noah still had no clue why they were taking this trip, only where they were headed. Until Nanda burst into his room with her last-minute plan, he’d thought the highlight of his evening would be tossing yet another disturbing package meant for his roommate, Fiona Lim. Inside was a full-size silver urn, engraved but thankfully empty, along with a postcard featuring a cartoonish, rotund opera singer, with no signature or note.
But when Nanda told him she was leaving at midnight, her voice barely steady, he knew he couldn’t just stand by. Whatever weighed on her, she needed someone. Sure, a million questions swirled in his head; this wasn’t the time for them. Without hesitation, he volunteered to drive.
In the shotgun seat, Nanda wrestled with her own questions about Noah.
She didn’t know why a signed printout of an email with the subject line “Resignation notice—Noah Damsgaard-Hansson” sat on his desk, or what was inside the giant sealed envelope he had to deliver during their trip. Still, she didn’t press him, just as he hadn’t pressed her. How could she? She was the one who had dragged him into this mess. The least she could do was hold her tongue. For now, she was simply grateful, grateful that Noah was here, willing to help.
Yet, with each passing second, the silence grew heavier, thick with unspoken questions, waiting for the other to break it. Finally, fed up with the suffocating quiet, Nanda knew she had to end it somehow. Anything to shatter the stillness.
“Are we south of the river?” she asked, her words edged with worry. She looked out the window, her eyes catching sight of a gas station exit sign as they cruised along Hiawatha Avenue.
Noah didn’t answer right away. His hands shifted on the steering wheel, fingers tightening as they passed a fifteen-foot U-Haul.
“What do you mean?” he asked. His eyes stayed glued to the road, bracing for whatever came next.
“Like, are we still in Minneapolis?”
“Not for long,” he replied, checking his phone’s map. “We’re about to cross the river.”
“Ay, gracias a Dios,” Nanda breathed, her tone lighter than it had been all night. “Do you mind if we make a quick stop?”
“Sure. We need to refuel anyway,” Noah said, guiding the car toward the next exit. With one hand still on the wheel, he reached for the cup holder and came up empty.
“Looks like we could use some road snacks too,” he added with a grin, but the comment hung in the air. Nanda’s eyes remained fixed on the blur of the streetlights, lost in thought.
Minutes later, as they pulled into the gas station, Noah shot her a glance before lowering the windows, curiosity overtaking his patience. The question he had been holding back spilled out.
“Is everything alright?” His voice was casual, though the worry was unmistakable.
“Yeah.” Nanda nodded. “Everything’s fine, I promise. I just need to make a call.” She unbuckled her seatbelt, jumped out of the car, and left her coat and her best friend behind at the gas pump.
“Sorry, I’ll be right back,” she called over her shoulder.
For Nanda, this night was nothing like she had planned. She should have been video calling her family in Costa Rica, something she had been putting off for too long, before settling in with takeout and binge-worthy reruns. Simple. Comforting. Predictable.
Instead, here she was, alone behind a Target truck at a highway gas station, neon lights casting long shadows across the asphalt. She waited, phone clutched tightly, hoping for a reply that hadn’t come. Forget Pura Vida. Her world was falling apart, and every attempt to hold it together seemed to make it worse.
She thought about making another call, but fear held her back. What could she possibly say to explain the mess she’d caused? The weight of uncertainty pinned her in place, trapping her in a loop of hesitation as she watched two trucks rumble away.
A sharp gust cut through her hoodie, yanking her back to the present. She exhaled sharply. Enough, she told herself. She had to move. Anything was better than standing here. With trembling fingers, she unlocked her phone and dialed the number, half-expecting the result.
The call didn’t connect, just like before. Stifling a sigh, she left a voice message.
“Hey Lia, it’s Nanda,” she started, her words catching in her throat. “I know I’ve been blowing up your phone, but please, please get back to me as soon as you can. It’s really important. Noah and I are heading to Ames. Text me ASAP, okay?”
Phone still in hand, she lingered on the sidewalk, watching her breath puff out in little clouds against the night air. Just as she was about to give up and head back to the car, a thought struck her. She called again, leaving another voice message for her little sister.
“Hey Lia, it’s me again,” she said, her tone sharper with urgency. “I forgot to mention, if anyone asks, just say you were in the hospital, and I had to make an emergency visit to come see you. Anyway, see you in a few hours.”
Walking back to the car, Nanda wished she could rewind the clock, make a different choice. But life wasn’t like golf; there were no mulligans, just the relentless forward march of consequences.
Inside the store, Noah grabbed everything needed for the trip: a lemon-lime Gatorade for himself, a room-temperature Dasani for Nanda, two cranberry chocolate nutrition bars, and a handful of travel-size toiletries, just in case. The shopping trip would have gone faster if he hadn’t gotten caught up in a news segment playing overhead: a story about a group of students who had created an AI healthcare chatbot.
“The future is bright,” the researcher concluded, holding up his phone to the reporter, his hopeful grin completing the picture.
“Yeah, well, so is a dumpster fire,” Noah muttered under his breath, his cynicism sharpening every word.
And speaking of dumpster fires, his roommate Fiona Lim came to mind. He still owed her an update about everything. Dropping his supplies by the slushy machine, he reached for his phone, fingers moving fast as he typed:
Noah: The envelope is with Jack now.
Noah: And Nanda and I took your car. The black one. We are on the run too.
Noah: Btw how is everything? Any updates??
Three thousand miles to the west, somewhere over Canada, Fiona Lim, known to her family as Yuan-Yuan, sat on a transpacific flight bound for Macau, her hometown.
She’d known her family would eventually summon her home to deal with the “Kosmos 1408” kind of mess she’d created. The scandal had not only earned her the title of “Public Enemy Number One” among Chinese internet trolls; it had also put the family business in serious jeopardy. Until Allen Lim, her older brother, emailed the trip details just hours earlier, she hadn’t known when she would be allowed to return. Now, all she could do was hope to keep a low profile and stay off the paparazzi radar upon landing.
She traveled light, though not by choice. Allen’s email had plunged her into a flurry of damage-control calls with the family’s lawyer and PR team, leaving her no time to pack. On this nearly full flight, she was the only passenger without a checked bag, or even a backpack. Everything she owned fit into a small sage-green tote bag: her noise-canceling earbuds, passport, I-20 form, a half-used pomegranate-flavored lip balm, and a sea salt caramel chocolate bar from Lunds & Byerlys.
But without melatonin, Xanax, or anything to calm her down or knock her out, she had already suffered two panic attacks before boarding and wondered how she would make it through the rest of the flight.
Just in time, messages from Noah arrived, offering a much-needed distraction. She quickly texted him back:
Fiona: Thanks. It was sealed right?!
Fiona: And what do you mean? Where are you two going??
Seeing the “delivered” notification next to her messages to Noah, she closed her eyes for a moment, savoring the small relief. At least one thing in her life was still within her control, she thought gratefully.
The past two weeks had been a nightmare: her reputation crushed, her inbox flooded with threats, and her family’s house egged every single day. Following her parents’ advice, she had been lying low in Glencoe, a quiet suburb outside of Chicago. But the time had come for her to face the storm head-on. So here she was, hiding behind oversized sunglasses, on her way back to Macau, bracing herself for the most important speech of her life.
Feeling the edges of a third panic attack creeping in, she unlocked her phone, fingers instinctively swiping through the photo gallery. Scrolling through old photos had become her go-to coping mechanism since the scandal. And right now, it was exactly what she needed: a tether to pull her attention away from the chaos and the crushing weight of expectations.
Her thumb moved swiftly across the screen until she paused. There it was, like stumbling upon gold: an album labeled “Decoration Ideas.”
Fiona lived for holiday decorating. Ever since she and her three roommates had moved in together, she had made it her mission to transform their apartment into something worthy of a Dayton’s holiday window. Her crowning achievement was their Mid-Autumn Festival-themed display, which had gone viral on Yik Yak.
Just as she began losing herself in the memories, the familiar ding of an incoming email pierced her bubble of calm. Her heart plummeted. She didn’t need to open it to know: Allen’s updated speech outline, of course.
With a sigh, she sent a short reply to her brother, then gulped down the last of her now-cold Lapsang souchong. After asking the flight attendant to raise her lie-flat seat, she headed to the restroom to freshen up.
Behind the locked bathroom door, she finally slipped off her sunglasses, staring at the reflection that greeted her. It was like déjà vu: she looked exactly as she had when she stumbled into her Intro to Macroeconomics at 8 a.m. after a wild, sleepless weekend at a rave. Only this time, there was no thrill, no adrenaline. Just a hollowing sense of loss.
But there was no going back. No time to retrace her steps or dwell on whatever mistake had landed her in this mess. Only one thing mattered: her family’s entire business in mainland China hinged on her performance at the press conference.
Back in St. Paul, Lu was almost there, so close that he could see the Union Depot entrance just two blocks down the road. As he prepared to cut through the dark alley behind the old Customs House, his phone buzzed. He pulled it out, and the blue glow of the train-tracking app lit up his face.
Another delay: a freight train had clogged the tracks in western Wisconsin.
Frustrated, Lu was about to pocket his phone when his finger brushed the screen, accidentally scrolling down and revealing two messages from earlier. They were from a local number he didn’t recognize. Written in bold, all-caps letters, the messages read:
Unknown number: DON’T GET ON THE AMTRAK!
Unknown number: THEY KNOW EVERYTHING YOU DID IN THE SUMMER!
Loving this!! can’t wait for the nextt!💕