By seven in the morning, the northern air outside the Chiang Mai train station was sharp and thin, smelling faintly of charcoal smoke and damp pine needles.
Mali's interview had lasted forty-five minutes.
Phuwin and Krit had spent those forty-five minutes sitting on the low brick wall outside the design faculty building, sharing a wooden stick of cold grilled northern sausage they'd bought from a street cart by the gates.
When the heavy glass doors of the building finally pushed open, Mali walked out into the morning sunlight. She wasn't running. She wasn't crying. Her canvas bag was slung over her shoulder, her blue blueprint tube tucked under her arm like a rolled-up poster.
Krit stood up so fast his knee slammed into the brick wall. "Well? Did they throw you out? Did you cry? Did you tell the dean his building had terrible lighting?"
Mali walked down the concrete steps slowly, her eyes squinting against the bright morning light. She stopped three feet in front of them, looking at Krit's grease-stained fingers and Phuwin's nervous, unblinking face.
"The dean said my line work was too rigid," Mali said, her voice completely deadpan.
Phuwin's heart sank into his sneakers. "Mali…"
"And then," Mali continued, her mouth twitching violently at the corner as a massive, uncontrollable smile broke across her face, "the assistant lecturer told me my hand-drawn perspectives were the most detailed ones they'd seen all week. They accepted my preliminary enrollment on the spot."
The courtyard went silent for half a second.
Krit didn't even say a word; he just grabbed Phuwin by his collar and yanked him into a chaotic, staggering group tackle that sent all three of them tumbling onto the grass beside the brick wall.
"You absolute liar!" Krit yelled, his face squished against Mali's shoulder. "I almost had a heart attack! My soul left my body!"
"Get off me, you're getting pork grease on my blazer!" Mali laughed, but her arms were wrapped tightly around both of their necks, holding them down against the cold grass.
Phuwin lay on his back, staring up at the vast, pale blue sky over Chiang Mai—so different from the heavy, humid grey clouds of Bangkok.
Mali was going to the mountains. The silver car hadn't won. The yellow sticky notes hadn't won.
"Hey," Phuwin said, his voice quiet under the rustle of the pine trees above them.
"What?" Krit grunted, still lying on his arm.
"We actually made it here."
Mali looked down at Phuwin, her dark hair falling over her face, her eyes bright and clear in the morning sun. "Yeah. We did."
By three in the afternoon, they were back on the local bus heading toward the train station for the return trip to Bangkok.
The atmosphere in the back row was quiet, heavy with the dull, comfortable exhaustion that follows a huge release of pressure. Mali had her head resting against the glass window, fast asleep, her blueprint tube held loosely in her lap like a prized possession.
Phuwin looked over at Krit.
Krit wasn't sleeping. He was sitting with his chin resting on his chest, staring down at his phone screen. His thumb was hovering over an open application page for a sports management college in central Bangkok.
The application form was blank. The submission button was greyed out.
"Krit," Phuwin whispered, keeping his voice below the roar of the bus engine.
Krit didn't look up, but his thumb paused over the glass screen. "What?"
"When are you submitting yours?"
Krit let out a small, barely audible breath through his nose. He flipped his phone face down onto his thigh, looking out the front windshield at the winding mountain road ahead.
"I'm not," Krit said softly.
Phuwin blinked. "What do you mean you're not? The deadline for early registration is next Friday."
"I mean I'm not applying for early track," Krit muttered. He pulled his light-up star sunglasses from his collar, spun them around his thumb once, and slid them onto his face—hiding his eyes completely behind the cheap tinted plastic. "My dad wants me to take over the auto shop after graduation anyway. College is expensive. Why waste money to learn how to sit in an office?"
Phuwin stared at the side of Krit's face. The easy, loud, indestructible menace who had thrown french fries, smashed tin cans, and paid five baht to block a silver Toyota was suddenly sitting beside him looking remarkably small.
"You hate cars, Krit," Phuwin said, his voice tightening. "You don't even know how to change your own oil. You told me last week you wanted to coach junior league basketball."
"I say a lot of stupid things," Krit said, his tone flat, defensive, and completely devoid of humor. He turned his head to face the window, closing the conversation before it could start. "Forget about it, ghost boy. Today is Mali's day. Don't ruin it."
Phuwin reached out to touch Krit's shoulder, but Krit shifted his posture just enough to slide out of reach.
Outside, the mountain road wound back down toward the flat plains of the south, the shadow of the bus lengthening over the asphalt as the sun began its slow, quiet drop toward the horizon.