The Story As It Goes

I was born in Hong Kong in 1976. Sham Shui Po district. Working class. Crowded streets. Always noise.

My father managed a garment factory. Long hours. Came home tired and stressed. My mother used to be a seamstress before I was born. After that she stayed home. Did alterations for money. Her sewing machine ran all day. Click click click. I grew up with that sound.

Our apartment was small. Tong lau building. Four stories. We lived on the third floor. One bedroom for them. Small alcove for me. Kitchen barely fit two people. I could hear neighbors through walls. Everyone could hear everyone.

I was an only child. That meant all their attention went to me. All their expectations too.

They loved me. I know they did. But love came with conditions I didn't understand then. "Do better. Be better. Why didn't you score higher? Look at so-and-so's kid. They got into better school. They won the award. What about you?"

I learned early that performance mattered more than feeling. Show them results. Keep the rest to yourself.

I scored well. Did what was expected. Never complained. Never fought them on it.

What I thought about it I kept to myself.

THE QUIET CHILD

I was quiet as a kid. Watched more than I talked. Other children played games I didn't join. Not because I couldn't. Just didn't see the point.

They were loud. Exhausting. I preferred being still. Watching.

Teachers said I was well-behaved but withdrawn. That's what they wrote on reports. My parents read it and looked disappointed. Even being quiet was wrong somehow.

I didn't try to change. This was who I was.

THE FABRIC MARKETS

Weekends my mother took me to the fabric markets. Ki Lung Street. Yen Chow Street. Stalls everywhere. Bolts of cloth stacked high. Buttons in bins you could scoop with your hands. The colors. The textures. The smell of dye and fabric.

My mother taught me. How to tell quality. How to spot defects. How to negotiate price. She'd hold up fabric and I'd check the weave. Look for pulls. Uneven dye.

This made sense to me. Fabric didn't lie. Either it was good or it wasn't. No performance required.

My father talked about work at dinner. Orders from America. Shipments to Europe. Quality control. Buyers who were difficult. Factory workers who didn't show up. I listened. Absorbed it. The textile business became familiar.

TIANANMEN

Summer of 1989. I was thirteen.

Tiananmen Square happened. We watched it on TV. Tanks rolling over people. Blood on concrete. Screaming. My parents went pale. Didn't say much. Just stared at the screen.

After that everything changed. 1997 was coming. The handover. Britain giving Hong Kong back to China. People were scared. Families started leaving. Canada. Australia. UK. Anywhere but here.

My parents talked about it late at night. Thought I was asleep but I heard them. My father said "We should stay." My mother said "It wasn't safe." They argued. Not yelling. Quiet arguing. Worse somehow.

They stayed. But the fear stayed too. They didn't trust Beijing. Didn't trust the promise of One Country Two Systems.

Neither did I. But I also didn't trust anywhere else. Trust seemed like a luxury.

I went to Hong Kong Polytechnic University in 1994. Studied Business Administration. Practical degree. My parents approved. It would help me get good job. Maybe help me leave if things got bad.

I still lived at home. Commuted every day. Studied hard. Got good grades. Joined business club. Did group projects.

I worked well with others. Contributed what was needed. Met deadlines. Delivered results.

But I kept distance. Study partners. That's all they were. They talked about their lives. Their boyfriends. Their problems. I listened. Nodded. Said little about myself.

What was there to say.

LATE NIGHT NOODLES

Second year of university. 1995.

Late night. Coming home from library. Nearly midnight. Stopped at a dai pai dong for noodles. He was there. Alone. Drinking tea. Watching the street.

Our eyes met. He smiled. Asked if I wanted to sit.

I said "Yes."

My heart was pounding. Kept my face neutral. Cool.

We talked. Small things at first. The heat. The economy. What I studied. He asked questions. I answered. Didn't ask many back.

He seemed to like that.

Second time was coincidence. Same stall. Week later. Same time. He was there again.

Third time I went looking for him. Found him.

After that it became routine. Late nights. Noodles. Tea. Talking. Mostly him talking. Me listening. Watching.

He never said what he did for work. Just "Business. Night work. Clients who keep odd hours." He'd check his pager. Sometimes leave suddenly. "Sorry. Something came up."

I didn't ask questions.

SMALL REQUESTS

First few months were just that. Talking. Meeting late. Sometimes he'd walk me partway home. Stand close at the corner. His hand on my arm. "See you next time Alice."

Then one night he mentioned he needed information about someone. Just basic things. Where they lived. What time they came home. "Would I mind checking."

I went. Watched from a distance. Called him from a payphone with the details.

"Thank you Alice. You're good at this."

After that it was gradual. Small requests. Follow someone. Note their routine. Check if they live alone. See what medications they take.

I did it all.

By the end of 1995 I had a key to his apartment. Started going when he wasn't there. Making sure things were organized. Ready. He'd leave me lists sometimes. Handwritten. Names. Addresses. Details to verify.

I'd do it all. Call him after. "Done."

"Perfect."

DEEPER IN

1996 I started anticipating what he needed. Information about people. Their habits. Medical conditions. Who visited them. When they were alone. I'd spend days watching. Taking notes. Photographing from a distance. Details about their building's layout. Fire escapes. Service entrances. Delivery schedules.

Leave everything organized for him. Photos. Notes. Floor plans.

He'd come back late. Sometimes 3 or 4 AM. Exhausted. Sometimes he smelled like hospital antiseptic. Sometimes like chlorine. Sometimes just sweat and stress.

I'd have clean clothes ready. Hot water for shower. Food if he wanted it.

Sometimes I'd wait for him. Sitting in his apartment in the dark. He'd come in. See me there. Never startled. Just relieved.

"Thanks for staying."

By mid-1996 he started calling for specific things. "Alice I need details on this person." "Alice I need their schedule confirmed." "Alice I need to know if anyone checks on them."

I did it all. Didn't need to ask what or why anymore.

Sometimes packages to dispose of. Documents. Photos. Clothes. Sometimes items to move between locations. Medical supplies. Tools. Always careful. Always different locations. Different days. Never the same bin twice. Never the same route.

He noticed.

"You're learning."

"Had a good teacher."

"I didn't teach you that."

"Didn't need to. Makes sense when you think about it."

"Most people don't think about it."

I'm not most people.

He gave me an envelope one day. Cash inside.

I didn't want his money. Told him that.

He said: "You're not doing this for money are you?"

"No."

He looked at me for a long time. Then just: "Keep it anyway."

WHAT WE WERE

I became part of his work. His preparation. I'd get his calls. Gather information. Move items. Set things up. Make sure his apartment was ready when he came back.

We barely saw each other anymore.

Sometimes we'd overlap. Him leaving. Me arriving.

Brief moments. His hand on my shoulder. "Thanks Alice. Don't know what I'd do without you."

Then gone.

I kept everything running. Kept everything ready. Kept him safe.

Late 1996. One night I stayed late. Waiting. He came back around 3 AM. Face gray. Hands shaking slightly. Sat at the table. Stared at nothing.

I made tea. Sat with him while he drank it.

He looked at me. "You're not scared of me."

No.

"Why not."

"Because I see you."

He was quiet for a long time.

"You see too much Alice."

"Maybe."

"It's going to hurt you someday."

"Maybe."

He was probably right.

Didn't change anything.

JUGGLING EVERYTHING

Early 1997 I was in my final year. Balancing classes. Exams. My work for him. Barely sleeping.

My parents noticed I was tired. Working too hard. They thought it was school. Proud of my dedication.

Let them think that.

Everything was juggling. Classes during the day. Library in the evening. His calls at night. Tasks to complete. Things to check. Routes to memorize.

I was good at it. Managing everything. Keeping all the pieces moving.

Never dropped anything.

By spring 1997 we'd been together two years. Not really together. Not like other couples. We didn't go out. Didn't meet each other's friends. I'd never met anyone from his life. He'd never met anyone from mine.

We existed in stolen moments. His apartment. Late night calls. Brief overlaps.

But it was something. It was ours.

I didn't need more than that.

Or told myself I didn't.

JULY 1, 1997

Handover day. I was twenty-one. Final year of university. Graduation coming in a few months.

We watched the ceremony on TV together. His apartment. British flag coming down. Chinese flag going up. Prince Charles looking sad. People crying. Some celebrating.

Dominic sat silent. Watching.

I watched him more than the screen.

After the ceremony ended he turned off the TV. Sat in the dark.

"What are you thinking?" I asked.

He looked at me. "You should leave Hong Kong."

"What?"

"After you graduate." "You should go." "Get out before things change."

I stared at him.

"I'm serious Alice." "You're smart." "You speak English." "You could go anywhere." "Don't stay here."

"What about you?"

He smiled. Sad smile. "I can't leave." "This is where my work is." "Where I am." "But you." "You should go."

That night after he fell asleep I lay awake. Thinking.

Next day I started researching. How to leave. Where to go. What I needed.

Japan made sense. Close enough. Developed country. Strong textile industry. My father had connections with Japanese buyers. I could use that.

But I'd need to speak Japanese. Really speak it. Business level. That meant years of study.

I looked into it. Classes. Programs. Costs. Timeline.

Two to three years minimum.

Made notes. Drew up a plan. Step by step. How to get out.

Put it all in a folder. Hid it in my desk at home.

August 1997. Enrolled at Japan Society of Hong Kong. Classes three evenings a week. Saturday mornings. Told my parents it would help with international business. Future job prospects.

True enough.

But I didn't tell Dominic.

September. Started my final semester. Classes during the day. Japanese study at night. His calls between. Tasks to complete. Locations to check.

Managing everything. Keeping all the pieces moving.

October. Passed my first practice test. Making progress. The plan was working.

But I was still here.

Still going to his apartment. Still checking locations. Still waiting for him in the dark.

The folder in my desk kept growing. School certificates. Visa requirements. Job listings. Practice test scores.

Evidence of leaving.

While I stayed.

Dominic never asked if I'd started making plans. Never brought it up again.

Maybe he knew.

Maybe he saw my textbooks. My notes. The exhaustion from juggling everything.

Maybe he was waiting to see what I'd choose.

I was choosing both.

Preparing to leave.

But staying for him.

GRADUATION

November 1997.

I graduated. Ceremony at the university. My parents came. Proud. Emotional. My mother cried. My father took photos.

All their investment had paid off. Their daughter. University graduate. Good job prospects.

I stood in my gown. Held my degree. Smiled for the photos.

Afterward we had dinner. They asked about my plans. I told them "I'd start looking for work." "Maybe at Father's factory." "Use my degree there."

They were pleased. Staying close. Staying in Hong Kong. Good daughter.

That night I went to Dominic's apartment. Key in the lock. Pushed open the door.

He was sitting at the table. Waiting.

I showed him my degree. He looked at it. Smiled. "Proud of you Alice."

"Thank you."

He was quiet for a moment. Then: "I need to talk to you."

My heart sank. Already knew.

"You graduated." "You have your whole life ahead of you." "Good job." "Good future."

"Dominic."

"This. Us. It can't continue."

"Why not?"

"Because you deserve better than this." "Better than me." "Better than waiting in the dark for me to come home."

I didn't say anything.

"You're twenty-one." "Smart." "Capable." "You could do anything." "Go anywhere." "And you're here." "With me." "Doing things you shouldn't be doing." "Seeing things you shouldn't see."

"I chose this."

"I know." "That's the problem." "You chose this because of me." "And I can't." "I won't let you waste your life like this."

"This isn't wasting my life."

Yes it is. He stood up. Walked to the window. Looked out at the street. "Alice." "I care about you." "More than I should." "And because I care I need to let you go."

"You don't get to decide that for me."

"Yes I do." He turned around. "This is my world. My choice." "And I'm choosing to end this."

I stared at him. Hands shaking. Kept my face neutral. Cool.

"So that's it."

"That's it."

Stood there for a long moment. Then put my key on the table. Picked up my bag.

"Alice."

Stopped at the door. Didn't turn around.

"Thank you. For everything. You were." He paused. "You were the best part of these two years."

Left before he could see my face.

Walked home. Three in the morning. Empty streets. Kept my breathing steady. Kept walking.

Got to my apartment. Sat on my bed. Stared at the wall.

Didn't cry.

Just sat there.

Thinking about the folder in my desk. The plan I'd put aside. The escape I'd ignored.

For him.

And now he was gone.

THE FACTORY

December 1997.

Started working at my father's factory. International Sales Coordinator. Bridge between factory floor and overseas buyers.

Threw myself into it. Arrived early. Left late. Learned everything. Production schedules. Quality standards. Export documentation. Client relationships.

My father was pleased. Didn't know what else to do. Where else to go. So I worked.

I was good at it. Detail oriented. Never missed errors in orders. Workers liked me because I didn't act superior. Management respected my work.

Coworkers kept distance. That was fine.

Watched the production floor. Memorized the patterns. Quality control. Shipment logistics. Client preferences.

Made myself useful. Made myself valuable. Made myself too busy to think.

Mostly worked.

Still went to Japanese classes. Three evenings a week. Saturday mornings. Had been going since August. My parents thought it was for professional development.

They were right. Just not the way they thought.

THE PLAN

January 1998. Two months since graduation. One month at the factory.

Went home one night. Opened my desk drawer. Pulled out the folder.

The plan. The research. The certificates from my Japanese classes.

I'd been studying since August. Five months now. Hiragana. Katakana. Basic grammar. Elementary vocabulary.

But I'd been half-committed. Juggling it with everything else. With him.

Not anymore.

Looked at my study schedule. Three evenings a week. Saturday mornings.

Not enough.

Rewrote it. Classes three evenings. Saturday mornings. Plus daily self-study. Train commute. Lunch breaks. Every spare moment.

No more distractions. No more divided attention.

Just Japanese. Just the exit plan.

SINGULAR FOCUS

February 1998. Intensified everything. Added listening practice during factory work. Vocabulary drills on the train. Grammar exercises during lunch.

Studied on the train. During lunch. Late at night. Weekends. Every free moment.

My parents noticed. Asked why I was studying so intensely. Told them it would help at the factory. International business. Communication with Japanese buyers.

True enough.

Didn't mention the rest. The work visa research. The job applications I was preparing. The exit plan.

They didn't need to know.

Language had rules. Clear rules. Follow them and you get results.

Unlike people. Unlike relationships.

Study hard enough. Practice enough. Take the tests. Pass the levels. Get the certification.

Clear path. Clear outcome.

No ambiguity.

June 1998. Passed JLPT N5. December 1998. Passed N4.

1999. Still working at the factory. Still studying. Still preparing.

No one at work knew. No one at home suspected. Just Alice working hard. Dedicated employee. Good daughter.

Kept my head down. Did my job. Studied my Japanese.

July 1999. Passed JLPT N3.

December 1999. Passed JLPT N2. Business functional.

Total time: August 1997 to December 1999. Two and a half years. Over 2,500 hours.

The first five months I'd been studying while still with him. Preparing to leave while choosing to stay.

The next twenty months I'd been studying with singular focus. No distractions. No divided loyalty.

Language had rules. Clear rules.

I wouldn't make that mistake again.

THE JOB OFFER

Late 1999 I started applying to Japanese companies. Specifically targeting Okayama. Kojima district. Denim manufacturing center.

A mid-sized manufacturer responded. They needed someone who spoke Japanese, English, and Cantonese. Someone who understood both Hong Kong business culture and Japanese manufacturing. Someone who could coordinate their international sales.

I was perfect for it.

Phone interview in Japanese. Passed. They offered me the job. International Sales and Export Coordinator. Work visa sponsored. Start date January 2000.

Accepted immediately.

My parents were proud. Also hurt. My mother cried. "Who will take care of you?" "What about finding a husband?" My father gave me cash for emergencies. Told me to "Work hard." "Make us proud."

I promised to visit. To call every week. To stay close.

But I needed to leave.

LEAVING

Visa approved late November 1999. Stared at the stamp in my passport for hours.

December was goodbyes. Walking through Sham Shui Po one last time. The fabric markets. The street vendors. The crowded alleys.

Didn't walk past his building.

December 30th. Last family dinner. Mother cooked all my favorite dishes.

December 31st 1999. Last night in my alcove. Packed and repacked my suitcases. Couldn't sleep. Listened to the street sounds. Vendors calling out. Neighbors talking. Cars passing.

Listened to my mother's sewing machine. Click click click.

January 1, 2000. Left Hong Kong.

My parents took me to the airport. Mother crying openly. Father stoic but his eyes were red. "Be safe." "Work hard." "Don't forget us."

I walked through the departure gate. Didn't look back.

On the plane I watched Hong Kong disappear under clouds. Twenty-three years old. Everything I owned in two suitcases. Flying toward a country where I knew no one.

ARRIVAL

Landed in Osaka. Train to Okayama. Then Kojima.

Rice fields. Mountains. Small towns. Quiet.

So quiet after Hong Kong.

My apartment was tiny. Studio. Tatami mats. Maybe 20 square meters. Faced an industrial street. Sparse but clean.

Set my suitcases down. Sat on the floor. Looked around.

This is home now.

Called my parents from a pay phone. "I'm safe." "Everything's fine." Mother asked if I was eating. Father told me to work hard.

Hung up. Walked back to my empty apartment. Sat in the dark.

THE FACTORY

Started work immediately. Denim factory in Kojima. Coordination between factory floor and international buyers. Quality control. Export documentation. Translation work.

Hong Kong clients were my specialty. I understood both sides. Could bridge the gap.

Workers were kind because I didn't look down on them. Often worked alongside them while handling management coordination. They taught me things. Production techniques. Quality standards. The artisan side of denim.

I noticed things others missed. Quality defects before they became problems. Shipment delays before clients called. Worker concerns before they escalated.

Made myself valuable. Made things run smoothly.

Coworkers still found me strange. Too quiet. Too observant. Noticed too much. Remembered too much.

That foreign girl who works hard but doesn't talk much.

Fair assessment.

Kojima was industrial. Small district. Everyone knew everyone in the denim business. Small factories. Skilled craftspeople. Traditions. Standards.

This world made sense to me.

AIKO

Her name was Aiko Morimoto. Quality inspector at the factory. Same floor as me.

First day she walked right up to my desk. "You're the new one from Hong Kong?" Direct. No hesitation. I nodded. She said "Good. I hate small talk too. Let's skip it."

I didn't know what to do with that.

She was from Kojima. Born there. Knew every street. Every shop owner. Every shortcut through the factory district. Compact. Sharp eyes. Hair always tied back with the same faded blue cloth. Hands rough from years of checking stitching and selvage.

We worked near each other. She inspected. I coordinated. Our tasks overlapped on export batches. She'd flag defects. I'd handle the paperwork. Efficient. No wasted words between us.

Weeks went by. One lunch she sat across from me in the break room. Didn't ask. Just sat. Opened her bento. Started eating.

I was eating onigiri from the convenience store. She looked at it. Looked at me. Said nothing.

Next day she brought two bentos. Put one in front of me. "My mother made too much."

I knew she lived alone.

Didn't say anything. Ate the food. It was good.

She dragged me places on weekends. Her word. "I'm dragging you out today Alice." Kojima streets. Jeans Street with all the denim shops. Small cafes. Shrines. The coastline. She talked about fabric like my mother did. Quality. Texture. Which mills were cutting corners. I could listen to that for hours.

She didn't ask about Hong Kong. Didn't ask about my past. Just walked beside me and pointed things out.

Once she mentioned her apartment heater was broken. By the next day I'd researched repair services. Compared prices. Made a list with phone numbers and hours. Printed it. Organized.

Brought it to her. She looked at it. "Alice. I already called someone yesterday."

"Oh."

She took the paper anyway. Folded it. Put it in her pocket. Didn't say anything else about it.

I kept doing things like that. Couldn't help it. She'd mention something and my brain would start mapping solutions. Most of the time she'd already handled it. Sometimes she hadn't but she didn't need my help anyway.

She never told me to stop. Never seemed annoyed. Just took whatever I gave her with that same steady look. Like she was letting me be whatever I was.

That made it worse somehow.

One afternoon. Summer. Walking along the Seto Inland Sea. Quiet. Just the water and the sound of boats.

She said "You don't have to earn this you know."

"Earn what."

"Being here. With me. You don't have to be useful to be worth having around."

Didn't know what to say to that. Nobody had ever said anything like that to me.

Kept walking. Watched the water.

She let the silence sit. Didn't push.

Once I organized her entire desk while she was in a meeting. Sorted her inspection sheets by date and batch number. Color coded.

She came back. Stared at it. "Alice."

"It was messy."

"It was my mess."

I felt heat in my face. Embarrassment. Shame. The feeling of being caught doing something you thought was kindness but might actually be something else.

"I know you're trying to help. But sometimes help isn't what people need. Sometimes they just need you to sit there."

She was right.

Knowing she was right didn't make it easier.

But she didn't leave. Didn't tell me I was too much. Didn't cut me off because I overstepped.

Just said it. Let me feel it. Moved on.

That was new.

After that it got easier. Not easy. But easier.

Months passed. Seasons. She kept showing up. I kept letting her.

FOUR YEARS

Four years passed. 2000. 2001. 2002. 2003.

Routines. Work. Home. Aiko. Phone calls to parents every week. Occasional visits to Hong Kong. Always awkward. Always questions about why I wasn't married yet.

Avoided his neighborhood. Never asked about him.

Japan felt like home. More than Hong Kong ever did.

Professional. Competent. Distant.

Got promoted to Senior Coordinator. My Japanese was fluent now. Still had slight accent but I could handle business meetings. Read contracts. Write reports. Negotiate with buyers.

Paid attention. Noticed everything. Remembered details others missed. Anticipated problems before they happened.

Watched. Prepared. Made things run smoothly.

Twenty-eight years old. Still observed more than I participated.

THE TRIP

Early December 2003. Textile trade show in Atlanta, Georgia. International Denim Expo. My factory sent me as their representative. Three-day event. Meetings with American buyers. Quality demonstrations. Networking.

Aiko came too. Factory sent her to present the inspection process to potential wholesale clients. First time either of us had been to the United States.

Flight was long. Kojima to Osaka. Osaka to Dallas. Dallas to Atlanta. Twenty-two hours of airports and turbulence. Aiko slept through most of it. I watched the clouds.

Hotel in Midtown Atlanta. Shared a room to save the company money. Small. Two beds. View of a parking garage. Aiko said it looked like a concrete bento box.

I packed light. Two suitcases. Work clothes. Presentation materials. My passport. Emergency cash in three currencies.

The expo ran December 11th through 13th. Return flight December 28th. Three days of work. Two weeks of whatever Aiko wanted to do. She'd insisted. "We're going to America for the first time and you want to fly home after three days? No. We're staying."

I didn't argue. She'd already researched places to visit. Printed pages from the internet. Circled things in pen. Mountains. Small towns. Something called a bed and breakfast.

Expected to go back to Japan.

Never went back.

THE ROAD

Expo ended. Work was done. Aiko was ready.

She'd found a place. Richard County. North Georgia mountains. Tourist area. Lakes. Hiking trails. A bed and breakfast in a town called Petersburg. "Peachy Living." She showed me the printout. Big house with a porch. Rocking chairs. Christmas lights.

"It looks like a movie."

"That's the point Alice."

Rented a car from the hotel. Aiko drove. I navigated. Highway north out of Atlanta. The city thinned. Strip malls gave way to trees. Then hills. Then mountains.

Richard County was quiet. Small roads. Farms. Churches with white steeples. Christmas decorations on every porch. Wreaths on doors. Lights strung between lampposts.

We arrived December 15th. Peachy Living was exactly like the printout. Big wooden house. Wrap-around porch. Woman at the front desk who called us both "honey" and meant it.

Room was small. Two beds. Quilt on each one. Window facing the lake. Aiko stood at the window for a long time. "It's so still."

She was right. After Kojima. After Hong Kong. The stillness was almost painful.

We spent the next few days like tourists. Drove through Sterling Springs. Walked the shops in Branville. Ate at a diner in Thompson where the waitress refilled our coffee without asking. Aiko talked to everyone. Shopkeepers. Other guests at the inn. A man selling firewood on the side of the road.

I watched. Stayed quiet. Let her pull me through it.

Christmas came. We were supposed to fly home in three days. Aiko bought a small tree from a gas station. Put it on the nightstand. Hung her earrings on it like ornaments. Ridiculous. I didn't say anything.

She called her mother. I called my parents. "Merry Christmas." "Yes I'm eating." "Yes I'm safe." "I'll be home soon."

THE OUTBREAK

December 26th. Something shifted.

News on the television in the bed and breakfast common room. Reports from Atlanta. Spike in hospital admissions. Surge in arrests. Something about Malaria. Unusual symptoms. Health officials urging calm.

I watched the screen. Aiko was reading a magazine. Didn't look up.

I noticed. Filed it away.

December 27th. More reports. Not just Atlanta anymore. Major cities across the country. Hospitals overwhelmed. The word "Encephalopathy" used for the first time. Aggression. Confusion. Skin discoloration. Yellow like sulfur. Eyes the same.

Tried calling the airline to confirm our flight. Long hold. When someone finally answered they said operations were running but to expect delays due to increased security measures at airports.

Hung up. Looked at Aiko.

"We should stay a few more days. See how this plays out."

She looked up from her magazine. Studied my face. Didn't ask why.

"Okay."

Called the front desk. Extended our stay through New Year's.

December 28th. The day we were supposed to fly home. Watched the news instead. More cities. More hospitals. Police presence increasing. Quarantine mentioned for the first time. Not officially. Just experts on panels saying the word carefully. Testing it.

Locals in Richard County were talking about it. Quietly. At the diner. At the gas station. "You hear about what's happening in Atlanta?" "My cousin in Savannah says the hospitals are full." "Probably nothing. Media blows everything up."

I listened. Didn't contribute. Mapped what they were saying. Tracked the pattern.

December 29th. Footage on CNN of a man in Dallas attacking paramedics. Yellow skin. Black veins at his temples. Eyes wrong. Police tased him. He got back up. They tased him again. He kept coming.

They cut the footage.

That night I sat by the window of our room. Watched the dark. The lake. The Christmas lights still glowing on the porch below.

Pulled out my notebook. Started making lists.

December 31st. New Year's Eve. The bed and breakfast had a small gathering. Champagne. Other guests. The owner put on music. Aiko went downstairs. I stayed in the room.

Midnight. Fireworks somewhere in the distance. Aiko came back. Sat on her bed.

"Happy New Year Alice."

"Happy New Year."

She looked at me. At my notebook. At the lists I'd written. Supply locations. Gas stations. Road maps I'd taken from the front desk. The Japanese consulate's phone number in Atlanta.

She didn't say "You're overreacting."

She said "How bad do you think it is?"

"Bad."

She was quiet for a while.

"Okay."

THE DECLARATION

January 10th. Morning. White House press conference on every channel.

State of Emergency.

The President spoke. CDC deployment. National Guard federalization. Quarantine Zones. Words like containment and peacekeeping that meant something worse underneath.

By then we'd been in Richard County almost a month. I'd already mapped the area. Supply points. Water sources. Which roads led where. Which towns had what.

I'd been doing it since the first news report. Couldn't help it.

I called the airline. Busy signal. Called again. Busy. Called the consulate. Busy. Called the airport directly. Recording. All international departures suspended pending further notice.

Put the phone down.

Aiko looked at me. "We're stuck."

"Yes."

She was quiet. Then: "What do we do?"

I looked at her. Looked at my lists. Looked out the window at the mountains and the lake and the Christmas lights someone still hadn't taken down.

"We're already here. Small towns. Farmland. Mountains. Away from the density. We stay."

Aiko nodded. Slowly. "Okay."

She trusted me to know what to do.

I wasn't sure I did. But I knew how to watch. How to prepare. How to stay ahead.

That would have to be enough.