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I laugh. “Enough, Isadora! I can’t read all of these on the plane!”

“No?” She is very smiley; I like her. If she is a kidnapper or a police person, at least she is nice. She pays the way Interstitials do, so I know she really does have the bioware. Then she takes me to the lounge for first-class passengers. She tells the lady at the desk that I am her nephew. I do not have a first-class ticket. We sit at the bar, and Isadora asks me if I would like anything to eat or drink. I thank her for her kindness, but tell her I am not hungry. She orders two Sichuan fizzes. When they come, she slides one over to me. I whisper to her that I am not old enough to drink alcohol.

“They don’t mind,” Isadora says. “You are with me.”

I take a sip of the drink. It is very spicy. I am thirsty, but I try not to gulp it. I notice that Isadora isn’t drinking hers.

“What will you do when you get to London?” she asks me.

“Study very hard. I am studying the piano.”

Isadora nods. “You are very talented, I am told.”

I feel my face getting hot. When I finish my drink, Isadora asks if I want hers. I shake my head. She says we should go to the plane. When I get off the stool my legs feel funny. I follow her through long corridors. There are not many people, and I begin to worry. My parents told me there would be crowds of people in the airport. We come to a gray room with many empty seats; there is a lady standing by a door. Isadora says hello to the lady, who smiles and allows us to pass. We walk down another hallway, and suddenly we are at the door of the airplane. I am about to take out my phone when Isadora stops me. “I upgraded your ticket,” she says. I walk behind her. “In here,” she says. There is a small room with seats, a table, two beds, a bathroom with a shower. The upholstery is yellow, the carpet is red. There are flowers on the table. I touch the petals. They are made of paper.

Isadora puts the books she bought for me on one of the seats. A man comes in with a white tablecloth, another man brings a glass pitcher of water. A lady brings a bottle and two glasses. Isadora pours pink liquid into the glasses and hands one to me. I sip it. It tastes like bubblegum.

There are three little windows, and I can see men loading luggage onto a conveyer. I wonder if this is the last time I will see Shanghai. Isadora shuts the door. We sit in the seats. I hear people talking, lots of bumping and grumbling.

“Are you nervous?” she asks me.

“Not about flying. I am nervous about arriving. I don’t remember my uncle. Is he kind?”

Isadora consults the Interstices. “No,” she says.

Wasn’t it my uncle who hired Isadora to be my minder? “Why do you say that?”

“Oh, that isn’t what I say. Others say that. Don’t worry, Oliver. All is for the best in the best of all possible worlds.”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I am silent. A lady opens the door and offers us a basket of snacks. Isadora tells me to put my seat belt on. I watch through the windows as the plane begins to move backward. We eat shrimp crackers and warm buns. I finish my drink, and Isadora pours me another glass.

The Drowned Hotel

Wednesday, October 30, 2041, and Thursday, October 31, 2041 (Oliver is 13)

Oliver: Isadora is shaking my shoulder. “Come on, Oliver, wake up now, we’re landing.” I peer through the rain-streaked window of the plane at the English morning, so gray and uninviting.

I use the washroom. Isadora has already gathered our stuff, and we are the first people to leave the plane. We ride on a little car through the empty hallways of the airport until we reach the barrier. I start to get out of the car and Isadora stops me and hands me the bag of books. “Okay, Oliver. I can’t come any further with you. It will be better for you if no one sees you with me. They will ask too many questions. It might be best if you don’t mention me to your uncle, either.” Isadora doesn’t seem to think this is a strange request.

“Oh.” I begin to freak out, but I know I mustn’t show it. “Okay. Ah, thank you, Isadora, for helping me.”

She puts her arm around me. “Don’t worry, Oliver. You are always under my protection. But now you have to go; the rest of the passengers are catching up and you don’t want to stand in the long queue.” Isadora gives me a little push, and I turn and begin to stagger through the long, empty rows of zigzagging ropes. When I get to the officer at the barrier I look back, but Isadora has disappeared.

After I present all my documents to the Immigration officials, I notice that they are giving me hard looks, and I wonder if they can tell that I have a very bad headache and feel terrible. They take my temperature, and swab my nose and throat, but apparently I am not sick, and they reluctantly allow me into England. I collect my backpack and pass through the barrier.

There are hundreds of people waiting on the other side. They have signs, and mylar balloons, and they are all talking at once. I do not see my uncle. I look carefully at the few Chinese people, but no one recognizes me. I wish Isadora was here. What did she mean, that I am under her protection?

A man rushes up, holding a sign, but I cannot read it. He has very freckled skin and short blond hair. He is wearing a suit and an overcoat. He says something I don’t understand. Finally, I realize that he is saying my new name. I nod. He motions for me to follow him. We walk quickly for a long time, until we arrive at the car park. Then he indicates that I should stand still, and walks away. My heart is pounding.

The sun is setting, the sky is red and violet. My breath makes clouds. I put my hands under my armpits to warm them. I start to feel better. A black car with tinted windows comes around the corner and stops next to me. The freckled man gets out of the car, puts my backpack in the boot and opens the back door for me. I get in, and there in the back seat is my Uncle Stephen.

He looks very much like my father, but younger. He smiles with his mouth only. I greet him deferentially. He calls me by my real name, and I glance at the freckled man, now sitting behind the wheel of the car, who ignores us. “It’s all right,” my uncle says to me. “He doesn’t speak Mandarin.” The car begins to move, and I realize that the freckled man is actually driving. I don’t want my uncle to see that this makes me nervous—I’ve never been in a car driven by a human before. Are all the cars here like that?

Uncle Stephen says, “How was your flight? You must be tired.”

“I slept through it. I do feel very strange.” I heed Isadora’s advice and don’t mention her.

“That’s just jet lag. It takes a day for every hour of the time difference to recover. Tomorrow we’ll go to your teacher’s house, and you can see a bit of the city. It helps to look at sunlight, it will reset your circadian rhythms.” Uncle Stephen is making conversation, but this talk of jet lag and circadian rhythms alarms me. Now I understand why Isadora wanted me unconscious: the delta brainwaves of deep sleep decrease the likelihood of time travel. The car is circling quickly down a ramp, and I feel sick.