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Yesterday it rained, and the day before, and for many days before that. The remaining droplets collect outside the airport terminal’s vaulted windows, conforming to a flat mist. I am reminded of the hot breath rising from behind my mask. The thin veil of fog gathering on my glasses as I exhale. Four weeks ago I planned to move to Shanghai. Now I am fleeing it. When the novel coronavirus was first identified the outbreak seemed distant. China; home to over one billion people. Nearly four million square miles: the rolling northern steppe, megacities to the east and south, sprawling dunes over its western deserts, countless skyscrapers extending upwards their tips obscured by the luminescent grey sky. Before I came I had never heard of Wuhan, a city the size of New York. At the time it didn’t matter. I think of Mr. White. He ran a small meat pie restaurant in Beijing. Its kitchen occupying more space than seating, with no distinction between the two. From the outside a flat white light spilled onto uneven cobble stones masking the griddle’s steam. The latter distinguishable only by its slow dissipation, rolling out from underneath the roof’s upturn eaves and into the frigid air. The first thing I noticed was his paunch. Stout and potbellied, his aproned figure stood in front of the rounded stove. A small white cap sat atop his head, his short mustache detailing his face down to his swollen jowls. As I sat down Mr. White asked in Mandarin, “Are you hungry?” I replied “Chīfàn.” Eat. Mr. White laughed and began to present a few dishes before me. First meat pies. Thinly pounded beef seared in flaxen batter like a pancake, its exterior lightly browned and seasoned with leeks. “Wǒ yào.” I want. Next, two bowls of soup. One green, its contents bitter and grated to the texture of sand, the other yellow, filled with sodden rice covered in a gelatinous film. “Wǒ bùyào.” I don’t want. Mr. White smiled and handed both to me anyway. “Are you American?” He asks in English. “Yes” I reply. “I love America! Freedom! Yes. American and Iran. They fight.” I sheepishly respond, “Yes, not good.” This was the last thing I wanted to be reminded of. Seven thousand miles away and you can’t escape your country’s quarrels. Mr. White reaches for his phone and begins to type. Open to a translator app he hands it to me “I love freedom. Do you know Tiananmen Square?” Uneasily I reply, “Yes, I do.” Does he mean the tourist attraction? Or the student massacre? I have to wait for him to clarify. Bringing up something so controversial is risky. More typing… Mr. White hands over the phone again “I was in jail for three years. I love freedom. Love China, but hate the government.” I don’t know how to respond. He takes the phone away, then hands it back “I am Muslim.” Seeming to correct a mistake he grabs the phone again and types “A man without faith.” I could not understand why this man I had just met was sharing all of this with me. He looked back with his sincere grin and continued to cook. I sat in uncomfortable silence too shy to break taboo. As I enter through the security checkpoint I cannot stop from replaying these memories in my head. I am a foreigner with the luxury of leaving China when I deem it too risky to stay. What of the freedoms back home I take for granted. What have I done to deserve them? Mr. White fought for what be believed in and lost. He sacrificed three years of his life and saw little political gain from it. An epidemic is brewing, the extent of which still to be seen, and he remains in a country that has as little faith in him as he does it. I step through a temperature reader, my body translated to iridescent shades of red, yellow, and orange on an adjacent monitor. I cannot help but feel guilty. For me this was an exotic stint in the east, but for Mr. White this is home.