He was awake before her.

Today marked a year since their arrival and lying there in bed beside her and the tiny growth in her belly he thought he would find out that not a year had passed but just a day, and it was waiting, for him to do it all over again.

She was asleep, facing away from him.

He went to the kitchen and fixed the same breakfast of oats. He ate it over the sink. His last month in Wuhan, he’d eat a bowl of hot dry noodles for breakfast, sometimes two. That Mark had weighed 208 pounds. That Mark had talked his wife into coming back with him.

You worked hard to get your visa, didn’t you?

We poured a lot of money into this, didn’t we?

And the kicker: if it doesn’t work out, we can always come back here.

He ate his last bite and stared into the bowl. The leftover oats. The stains. Yes, he said. We can.

#

They took the train from one end of the airport to the other. She looked out the window, at snow-covered roofs and salted runways and he had time then, in his jetlag, to think that this was as new to her as China had been to him. A sense of wonder.

He didn’t ask if it would wear off.

#

Are you awake? he asked. A little louder, he added, Hey. It’s time to get up. He laid on the edge of the bed. It’s almost eight.

Sleep, she moaned.

Something came next. But what? He hesitated, then put a kiss on her lips, another on her cheek, one more on her forehead.

Zaoshang hao, he said.

Zaoshang hao.

Are you okay?

Fine.

Are you okay?

Hungry.

You can get some cereal.

She shook her head.

Some oats.

She shook her head again.

You have to eat something.

She looked away. At what, he didn’t know. She’d been doing this for a while. Since when? July? August? Time compacted onto a straight line, microscopic for quick examination. What was remembered in a matter of seconds had taken months to live. Easy to do when you have nothing.

She got up and put on her robe and he followed her into the kitchen. He watched her. She poured a bowl of cereal and then filled the bowl with milk. She sat at the table. He asked her if she wanted the TV on but she said no. She ate, looking off into that same something. The unseen fantasies. Onetime dreams drifting further out of reach. He wanted to hug her. Tell her it was going to be okay.

What he did instead was ask, Finished?

She handed him her bowl.

You don’t want the milk?

She made a face. No.

He rinsed out the bowl and loaded the dishwasher. She put her head down. He pulled out the chair beside her and stroked her hair.

Is everything okay?

Fine.

You keep saying that. It’s not an answer.

I am fine.

Sick?

No.

Any pain?
No.

And he left it at that. He left her with her head down at the kitchen table, alone with her drifting dreams.

#

In the shower, he closed his eyes.

Day one again. His mother and stepfather had come to pick them up at the Nashville airport. No idea what lay in store. His mother had spent the past few months warning him not to come back. They had no money. Nobody could get a job. But Mark, he had an ace up his sleeve.

They slept on the ride home. His parents and sister had rented this house specially for them. Their first meal in America was chicken dinners from Sonic. Less than a month later, Sonic would discontinue the chicken dinners.

That was around the time he first visited a recruiter.

He opened his eyes. He stayed in the warm water for a while longer, taking wagers on where she’d be when he got out. Smart money had the best idea. And when he stepped out of the bathroom, towel over his shoulders, smart money was right.

She was back in bed.