I remember the fog.
Chongqing fog. Wet. Sticking to my face.
The other side of the Jialing River was gone. Just white. A boat horn came through somewhere, low, like a cow.
I was standing at the river's edge. A piece of paper in my hand. Withdrawal notice. University. English major. Gone.
My father was dead. My family owed money. A lot.
I thought about jumping.
I didn't.
My mother was still there. My little sister was still there.
I walked away.
What happened after—I don't remember clearly.
I remember trains. Steel wheels on steel rails, clacking, clacking. A van with seven people, no one spoke. A river at night, cold up to my knees.
I remember a warehouse. A man on the phone. I understood some of the words. Russian. I'd learned a little in college.
"Chinese goods. Fifty thousand."
I was goods. Fifty thousand dollars.
I remember running. Trees. Dark. Dogs barking. I fell. Face in the dirt. I didn't move. The dogs got closer. Then they stopped. Someone was shouting. The sound got smaller. Smaller.
I lay there until morning.
Three days later, I came to a village. A small one. An old woman was hanging laundry in her yard. Gray dress. White hair. Back a little bent.
I stood outside her fence. I didn't go in. I was afraid.
She saw me. Looked at me for a long time. I must have looked terrible. Clothes torn. Face dirty. Eyes sunk in. Lips cracked and dry.
She didn't call for anyone. She went inside. Came out with bread. Water. An old coat.
She came to the fence. Gave them to me.
I said the only Polish word I knew. I'd learned it from a dictionary. Dziękuję.
She looked at me. Said something I didn't understand. I think she said "poor child."
I took the bread. I wanted to say something else. My throat closed up.
I walked away. A long way. Then I stopped. I ate the bread.
It was hard. The water was cold. I cried. Not because I was afraid. Because someone still saw me as a person.
Later, I got to Warsaw.
I remember the old town. Colorful houses. Red. Yellow. Blue. Snow on the roofs. Cobblestones. Slippery.
I found a Chinese restaurant. The owner was from Fujian. Balding. Gold chain. He looked at me.
"Wash dishes. Food and bed. Three hundred marks a month."
Before I could answer, he called back into the kitchen: "Old Li. Take him to the back."
Old Li came out. Northeasterner. Fifty-something. An oily apron tied around his waist. Flour on his hands.
He picked up my bag. Took me through the kitchen. Through a back door. Down some stairs. Into a basement.
"You sleep here." He pointed to a bed. The mattress creaked.
Three beds in that basement. One was his. One was empty. One had a young man in it. Wenzhou accent. I found out later his name was Xiao Liu.
I lay on that creaking bed. Smelled the mold. Listened to the sounds from upstairs. Mopping. Dishes. Old Li coughing.
I didn't know how long I'd stay. But I knew I was alive.