Meifong collapses at the airport lobby. Fine gray dust and little bits of shrapnel cling to her skin, hair, and clothes. Her knees and elbows bruise against the floor, and her sweat drips from the tip of her nose—plip, plip, plip—onto the yellowed tiles. The sound of her ragged breathing fills the silence. The place is deserted; not a soul to be seen or heard besides her own. Outside, a thick cloud of smoke shrouds the rest of the world.

With shaking limbs, Meifong pushes herself back on her feet. She wipes the sweat from her brow and goes to fetch a rickety cart for her luggage. The cart’s handles are blue, sticky, and oddly warm to the touch. Two out of the three wheels are stuck or half desiccated, but Meifong can’t waste time being picky. She drags her cart far towards the check-in counters.

White light shines from the high ceiling—bright, round fixtures stuck between cracking drywall and dark wood accents. Right next to the flight schedules on the wall, an electronic billboard flickers with its long-standing tourism slogan—Mabuhay. Meifong always liked that word. Arms aching, she hurriedly enters the check-in queue for Economy Class. The wheels on her cart squeak and screech with every turn along the looping stanchions.

“Next passenger, please,” the clerk calls from behind the counter. “Next passenger? Next passenger, please.”

Meifong nearly crashes her cart.

“Yes, here! I’m right here, I’m not late, don’t close the counter just yet,” Meifong sputters, out of breath. “Am I the last passenger to show up? No one else is waiting in line. The plane hasn’t left without me, has it?” She feels as though her brain might explode out of her skull at any moment.

The clerk smiles at her, teeth white and shiny. “Passport and ticket confirmation, please.”

Meifong dumps her paperwork on the countertop between them. Her pen rolls away and clatters onto the floor. “Shit—”

With long, knobby fingers, the clerk slowly rakes in the pile of documents. She takes her time looking over each page, then types on her keyboard—clack, clack, clack—then checks the pages again, and retypes, and checks again, very carefully. The clerk leans down to sniff the papers, taking deep whiffs of the ink. Meifong is too busy glancing at the clock to notice.

“Is the boarding gate open already?” she asks, tapping her foot on the floor. “I’m not about to sit here and wait for Christmas.”

“I’m terribly sorry, but you seem to have an issue, ma’am.”

“Issue?” Meifong spits. “What issue?”

“Have you applied for a visa, ma’am? You need a visa to enter Hiraya.”

“I don’t need a visa.” Meifong rolls her eyes at the clerk and points an accusatory finger. “I have dual citizenship. See, I have two passports. You’re holding them both right now. One of them grants me visa-free travel. So, I don’t need a visa.”

“Two passports?”

“Yes. Two.” Meifong answers through clenched teeth. “One red, and the other blue. They’re right in front of you.”

“Oh,” the clerk titters, “but this blue passport is no longer valid, ma’am.”

Meifong barks out a laugh. Her head shakes. She runs a sweaty hand through her hair. “It’s not expiring in eight more years. What the fuck are you talking about?”

“This country of yours, Fusang”—the clerk taps on the glossy print—“no longer exists.”

“That’s a lie.”

“As of this moment, your blue passport is nothing more than scrap paper.”

Meifong slams her fist on the countertop. The clerk stares back, unfazed.

“You’re lying,” Meifong says.

“It was on the news, ma’am.”

“So? It’s all fake news. Everybody knows that.”

“Ma’am—”

“No, shut up! You listen to me!” Meifong shouts, but the words catch in her throat. She swallows dryly, and her voice falls to a slow murmur. “Listen, okay? I am a proud citizen from the Kingdom of Fusang. You will recognize my citizenship. You will accept my passport—both passports—and you will let me on that plane,” she says. “Simple as that.”

“We can’t proceed with your check-in without confirming your visa to Hiraya, ma’am.”

“Did you even hear a single word I’ve said?”

“I’m afraid the airline cannot process a fraudulent passport from a nonexistent nation,” the clerk says.

“You want a bribe? Fine.” Meifong empties her coin purse onto the countertop. “Take it. Take everything.” A handful of loose change rolls off the counter’s edge.

After a pause, the clerk gathers Meifong’s documents and dumps everything back to her side.

“Next passenger! Next passenger, please? Will the next passenger come forward?”

Meifong glances back to the empty lanes, far across the deserted lobby, and then back to the airport’s front doors. The smoke swirls beyond the glass. She hears a muffled noise from outside—a popping and a crackling, almost like fireworks—and she flinches.

“Next passenger, please.”

This time, Meifong gets it right. She shows her ticket confirmation, and the travel tax receipt, and also her passport—just the one with the red cover, and her visa attached.

Clack-clack-clack-clack-clack-clack-clack.

While waiting, Meifong stares into blank space. Her blue passport—invalid, unrecognized, useless—stays shoved inside her coat pocket. Because the country, Fusang, no longer exists on the map.

At the clerk’s signal, Meifong loads her luggage onto the weighing scale. The luggage is not a backpack or a suitcase or a tote bag, but a bunch of used milk cartons that have been flattened and taped together, repurposed into a makeshift box for Meifong’s belongings. She got that idea from her grandfather who’d fled the Chinese Civil War as a stowaway at sea. Back then, he’d been young, and desperate, and penniless too.

“Your luggage is overweight, ma’am.”

“Of course.” Meifong huffs. “Of-fucking-course it is.”

“Would you like to purchase an add-on, ma’am?”

But Meifong is already hauling her luggage back onto the ground. She grabs it by one side and tears the flimsy carton open. The tape was already peeling, anyway. She has to decide which items to abandon. Blanket. Books. Pair of pants. Baby pictures. Her mother’s ashes. All she has left.

The luggage is a lot lighter now.

“Please also be reminded of the following prohibited items,” the clerk explains kindly. “No chemicals or toxic substances. No fluids over 1,000 milliliters. No lithium batteries, laptop chargers and power banks, no love, no light, no family, no safety.”

“Sure,” Meifong says, thinking she must have misheard.

Slowly, her luggage moves along the conveyor belt, a single tattered box that disappears down the chute.

Afterwards, Meifong receives her boarding pass. Gate 6. Seat Number 2E.

Boarding gate closes in five minutes. Plane leaves in ten.

“Thank you for flying with us! Take care, ma’am, and good luck,” the clerk says. “You will need it.”

Meifong runs.

She reaches the Immigrations Area in less than thirty seconds, skidding to a stop before the security guard.

“Boarding pass?”

“Right here.”

Meifong gets through the guard in ten seconds flat. Her heart pounds in her chest. She is making good time. The ceiling shrinks ahead of her, and the wood accents fade into the same monotone gray.

To Meifong’s horror, the Immigrations Area is packed full of travelers. The lines snake left and right, stretching long on either side, and move at a snail’s pace. Meifong wades through the babbling crowd, the crying babies, the arguing tourists who seemingly materialized from thin air.

“Fuck,” Meifong mutters under her breath. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!”

She elbows her way through to the front of the line and begs before the couple standing there.

“Please—please, please please, I can’t miss my flight. Please, po. Wala na akong pambili ng ticket. Parang awa niyo na po. Hindi ko na kaya. Paraanin niyo na po ako, sige na po, sa awa ng Diyos, pagbigyan niyo na po ako.”

The couple gapes wordlessly at her.

A beat later, the smaller of the two points straight ahead.

“Tinatawag na po kayo.” You are being called.

All the air in Meifong’s lungs leaves through her mouth. She staggers onward to the booth.

The Immigrations Officer stares at her, hawk-eyed and salivating.

Rising on her toes, Meifong struggles to see over the booth’s hard laminate. Once more, she hands over her one valid passport, boarding pass, visa. It’s not enough. Not for the Immigrations Officer. Meifong also has to show her driver’s license. And bank statements, her college diploma, birth certificate, dental records, her parents’ marriage certificate, her diary entries, grocery list, internet search history, her social media followers, her liked posts, dress size, shoe size, food allergies, mole map, mental illnesses, and, finally, her credit card statement.

Once Meifong has emptied her coat pockets, the questions begin.

“Your final destination is?”

“Hiraya.”

“Purpose of travel?”

“To escape fascism.”

“You can’t possibly expect me to believe that.” The officer’s eyes narrow into thin slits. “Where did you say you were employed again?”

Meifong stammers. “I work. From home.”

“And who is your employer, exactly?”

“No one.”

“You work for no one?”

“I’m a writer,” she mumbles vaguely. “I write for an audience. I sell stories, sometimes. Poems. And I work with editors.”

The officer sneers through the glass divider. He asks the same question. “Purpose of travel?”

“To escape—”

“Work? You’re intending to work illegally, overseas?”

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.” The officer presses his face close to glass. His eyes bulge out of their sockets, twitching and turning in different directions. “And you’re going to overstay your visa, I can see it in your face. Can you be any more obvious?”

Meifong screams.

Just let me through.

She is still screaming when the Immigrations Officer points a tiny camera at her. Click. He takes her fingerprint and stamps her red passport. Just like that.

Stunned into silence, Meifong stares at her stamped passport, the ink smudged and bleeding on the page.

“Well, go on then!” the officer cackles. “Why are you still standing around here? Waiting for Christmas?”

“I, uh—”

“GO! GET LOST!”

Meifong stumbles backwards and hits the floor, bruising her hip. The pain doesn’t register; she scrambles to her feet and breaks into a mad dash.

She reaches the final round of security checks. X-ray and a pat-down. When Meifong walks through the machine, its alarms shriek in her ears.

“I don’t have time for this!” Meifong sobs, but the guards pull her to the side for thorough examination. Hands all over her. They pat down every inch of her body and under her skin too. Fingers slip between Meifong’s rib cage, shifting her lungs and heart. They poke and prod at the spleen and tangle of guts, the stomach.

“What’s in here?”

“My lunch,” Meifong whimpers.

“What is it? Show us.”

“It’s pork adobo.”

“Are you hiding something in there?”

“I’m not.” And Meifong pukes up half-digested chunks of pork adobo, just to prove herself, which finally convinces the guards, who shovel the mess into plastic buckets.

“All clear.”

“Can I have my lunch back?” Meifong groans.

“You’re clear to go, ma’am. Right this way.”

No time to feel upset. Meifong puts herself back together and rushes down the long corridor, surrounded by duty-free shops and their racks of luxury goods. She spots the sign—Gates 1, 2, 3, 4 to the left, Coffee / Souvenir Shops in the center, and Gates 5, 6, 7, 8 to the right. Meifong leaps on the carpet, a smile cracking on her face. Gate 6 is close. She is sure to make her flight now, so sure. All her hardships will pay off. She’s going to make it. She’s going to be safe. Finally, finally safe.

At Gate 6, a huge LED monitor displays the flight information for the day.

CANCELLED

CANCELLED

CANCELLED

CANCELLED

CANCELLED

CANCELLED

CANCELLED

CANCELLED

CANCELLED

CANCELLED

CANCELLED

CANCELLED

CANCELLED

CANCELLED

CANCELLED

All the flights to every destination, cancelled.

The lights go out. Meifong stumbles in total darkness. She hears a crash, concrete blocks bursting to pieces. Gunfire and explosions. The floor shakes. Meifong screams and ducks low.

When the lights come back on, Meifong finds herself surrounded by the debris and burning rubble.

Behind her, a K-9 unit emerges from the shadows—growling, collared, and frothing at their mouths.

Meifong runs, and runs, and does not look back.

The airport is in ruins. Night has fallen, though the song of violence persists—a booming like thunder, firestorms, or rockslides. The floor is still for one moment and shaking the next. Massive pillars crack under the weight of attack, and noxious gas seeps in through broken windows. Meifong hides between the rubble, hunted by dogs of war.

She stays hidden for a long, long while.

Overcome by thirst, Meifong slowly crawls out to open space. Bits of glass dig into her arms and elbows. The fallen signage displays her current location—ARRIVALS HALL. She had run so far without realizing it.

Water, water.

In her search for the fountains, Meifong stumbles upon the Baggage Reclaim. The informational displays dangle from their wires, blank screens and dead ends, yet the baggage carousel remains operational through the chaos. The conveyor belt inches steadily along the course. It sends out coffins instead of suitcases. Coffins, big and small. Plastic shopping bags too, tied up into wet, lumpy mounds. ‘Round and ‘round and ‘round they go. Meifong chokes on the rotting stench. Her eyes prickle with tears. She forgets her thirst.

She hears a barking in the distance. Coming closer.

Rushing past the coffins, Meifong hides in the next corridor, just behind some toppled benches. As the K-9 pack stalks into view, Meifong peeks through the gaps. The pack has surely caught her scent, but they don’t chase her this time. This time, they lunge toward the opposite wall, snarling and snapping at a corner.

Is someone else out there?

Meifong removes her left shoe and throws it far down the end of the corridor. The shoe makes a loud, clunking noise as it hits the walkalator. The pack turns to chase their phantom prey.

This buys enough time for Meifong to rush toward the wall and rescue her fellow crying survivor—a single Red Maya. She cups the little bird in her hands; its fast-beating heart feels as though it might burst out of its body.

They hide together in a restroom, shut inside a cubicle.

“Are you hurt?” Meifong asks in a hush, cradling the Red Maya on her lap. “Don’t worry. They won’t find us here.”

Outside, the next wave of shellfire begins, sending tremors everywhere.

The Red Maya cries harder. Its coppery wings fall limp at its sides.

“I want to go home,” it says to Meifong. “When can I go home?”

“I don’t know,” Meifong answers, her voice hoarse and cracking. “I’m sorry. I want to go home too, more than anything in the world. But we’re trapped.”

And Meifong breaks down, sobbing on the toilet.

“We’re trapped,” she says. “There’s no escape. We’re going to die here, torn apart until nothing is left of us, and no one will care. No one will remember. And I wish we could go home, I really do, but it’s no use. There’s nothing else I can do. I’ve tried everything. It’s not fair. It never is. There’s no winning. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry—”

Then the little bird sings.

The bird sings, and Meifong stills. She hasn’t heard anything like it for so long. A song to light a fire in her heart.

Outside, the shaking has stopped. The Red Maya clambers up the front of Meifong’s shirt and nestles inside her breast pocket. Its small, fragile body radiates a pulsing warmth. Meifong gets back on her feet. She stares at the exit for a moment, and whispers to the bird in her pocket.

“Ready for one final dash?”

The Red Maya chirps back. Meifong cracks a tiny smile. She’s still missing her left shoe, but it doesn’t matter.

Meifong bursts out of the restroom. Running fast across the wreckage, she follows the broken signage out of the Arrivals Hall, even as a howling chorus echoes from afar. She climbs the frozen escalators and leaps across the crumbling floors, her footsteps lighter than ever.

She makes it back to the Departures Area, no stopping for breath.

NOW BOARDING, the signs say, bright as daylight.

Faster, faster, faster. Meifong sprints ahead with all her might. She has a flight to catch, after all.

Before long, she’s plowed through Gate 6 and torn her boarding pass in two with a triumphant shout. If there had been any staff present, she would’ve kissed them on the mouth. Through the huge bay windows, she sees the dark of night, and the faintest outline of an airplane, its headlights shining a brilliant gold.

“Just a little more,” Meifong gasps, “konti na lang! Kaya natin 'to!”

She staggers onto the loading bridge, coughing and gasping for breath. The air is thin inside the tunnel, the drone of plane engines loud in her ears. Meifong clutches her chest, feeling for the small heartbeat in her pocket.

She runs into a thick fog and falls out of the bridge, landing right on the asphalt.

“The plane,” Meifong groans, writhing from the impact. “Where’s my plane?”

The fog grows thicker around her. It smells like smoke, and something else. Something rotten.

“Hello?” Meifong calls blindly. “Is anyone there?”

She limps further along the runway, hearing nothing and no one. For some reason, she feels an urgent need to run.

Run. Run. Don’t stop.

“Help!” she cries out. “Help me, please! Anyone!”

A gold light flickers far ahead. Meifong squints from the sudden glare. It is not her plane.

Cutting fast across the fog, a single bullet hits Meifong in the chest and pierces her heart.

And she thinks, I’m going to miss my flight, after all. She falls backwards to the ground, slowly, as if sinking through mud. The fireworks have started up again. She thinks they’re fireworks, though she can see nothing in the fog. She sinks even deeper into the earth, a massive beast that swallows her whole.

In that moment, the Red Maya rustles out of Meifong’s pocket, unscathed. It spreads its wings and takes flight, disappearing into the nebulous cloud. With the last of her strength, Meifong reaches upwards with her hand. A single feather drifts down to her fingers. It is warm and soft to the touch.

She thinks about birdsong and, finally, closes her eyes to rest.

Editor: Kat Weaver

First Reader: Morgan Braid

Copy Editors: Copy Editing Department

Accessibility: Accessibility Editors