Before sunrise, we rode the subway through a silent Chengdu.

Our stomachs wanted breakfast.

Instead, we went to the railway station.

The ticket hall felt almost empty.

Six windows stood behind the counter, but only one was open. We stepped forward and handed over our reservation number.

She looked at the screen. Then the printer under her desk began to hum.

A ticket emerged.

Then another.

Then another.

She gathered the growing stack into a neat pile, waited, then gathered it again as the printer continued spitting out more.

By the time it stopped, she slid a brick of tickets across the counter.

Leshan.

Xi’an.

Huashan.

Beijing.

Shanghai.

Hangzhou.

Huangshan.

Our entire trip fit in one hand.

I reached for it, but Dani reached quicker.

Then she thumbed through the tickets once, nodded to herself, and shoved them into her wallet. The seams stretched as she forced it closed around paper it had never been designed to hold.

Without looking up, she pulled out the first ticket and handed it back to me.

Leshan.

“This one’s yours.”

The rest disappeared into her pocket.

I stared at my allowance, hand still open as if waiting for the rest.

Then I turned, and folded the ticket into my pocket.

“You coming?”

I looked up.

“I saw a noodle shop over there. Let’s get breakfast.”

Then she reached for my hand and put it into her coat pocket for warmth.

The streets were still dark as we walked. Above us, the first rays of sun illuminated the office tower windows.