The recording pen in Ajie's pocket had been there for a full four hours, its plastic casing sticky from the sweat in his palm. He hid in the closet of the international student dormitory, listening to the police sirens outside changing from dense to sparse, finally gritting his teeth and dialing the anonymous reporting hotline of the Department of Justice.
The operator on the other end initially thought it was a prank until he pressed the play button on the recorder, and Zhang Ming's Myanmar-accented voice like "big commotion," "ten times worse than now," and "syringe" rained down through the receiver like hail.
"The address, where are you sending the stuff?" The operator's voice suddenly tightened.
"My dad said to mix in the vaccine, it's related to Salvador..." Zhang Ming in the recording was still daydreaming about sports cars, but Ajie suddenly hung up the phone, collapsing on the floor of the closet.
But can you really escape?
