Chet pulled over by the plane. Top Gun shot out of the car and immediately began talking to a man in a leather jacket.

“Get your things,” said Chet. “We need to move quickly.”

I got out of the car, shouldering my backpack and tote bag. Chet grabbed my coat and nodded at it approvingly. “Good thing you have this,” he said. “It’s going to be cold.”

I put my bags down and let Chet help me into the coat. “Chet,” I said.

“What?”

“Where am I going?”

Chet looked around nervously. He put his hands on my shoulders. “You’re flying to Macau, then Hong Kong. Your flight to New York leaves early tomorrow. Gumboc thinks you left Baguio this morning, that you found a last-minute seat on the two p.m. Manila–Hong Kong flight. Records here will support that. Your aunt is also of the same opinion or is at least convincingly presenting the story.”

“But I was seen at the hotel—”

“Also taken care of.” No one had noticed me in the mayhem of Ambuklao Road. I was now a part of another story that would hold against the truth. Chet took an envelope that had been folded in the pocket of his shirt and handed it to me. I looked at it, realizing it was the itineraries, then shoved the envelope into my coat pocket.

Chet nodded a few times in a way that I knew was supposed to inspire confidence. Maybe he was composing some parting words, but the engines of the plane were growing louder. We were running out of time. Just then, my phone beeped with the signal that I knew meant it was a text from my husband. I ignored it.

“You’ll be fine,” Chet said. “We’ll just wait for things to quiet down. And then . . .”

“And then I come back?” I asked. I could feel a heaviness in my chest and I sensed immediately what it was, my heart, that quiet machine, and from its subtle ache, I knew that we were over. There was no future for us.

“Yeah. Just let me . . .”

“Let you fix things.”

Chet nodded. “You, Ting,” he said. He looked at me directly, accusingly. He was angry at himself, at his weakness. He said, “You.”

I stepped to Chet and he embraced me. I rested my head against his chest. I could feel him warm through the fabric of his shirt. I could hear his heart beating in there.

By the time we took off, Chet was already speeding away across the concrete, working hard to maximize the distance between us. My pilot was Chinese, as was the copilot, who spoke some English and seemed very excited at this opportunity to use it.

He asked me, “How was your day?”

“Very nice,” I replied. “Thank you for asking.”

Both my companions on that flight looked to be about twenty years old.