That evening, the festival held a reception in a vaulted room with bright windows and enormous bowls of tiny savory pastries. Filmmakers from Kenya, Ireland, Brazil, and Japan gathered near monitors showing trailer reels. Mia was speaking with a documentary student named Asha when a man in a blue suit approached and offered a business card.
"I'm Daniel Foster from Calder Capital's communications team," he said. "We're hoping to put this misunderstanding behind everyone in a constructive way."
Asha moved a little closer to Mia without saying anything.
"How did you find me?" Mia asked.
"Your name is on the festival program. We would like to invite you to a private conversation."
"About what?"
"A public clarification. There's a great deal of incomplete information circulating."
Mia thought about June's warning that a clip could be true and incomplete. "There is," she said. "But I don't think that makes it mine to fix for Mr. Calder."
Daniel maintained his polished smile. "Perhaps you could hear our proposal before declining."
"Send it to the festival office. I have a screening to prepare."
He left. Asha waited until he was out of sight, then said, "That was impressive."
"I was terrified."
"Those things aren't mutually exclusive."
In the hotel elevator Mia encountered a boy carrying a tripod taller than he was. His name was Florian, and he had traveled from Germany with a film about competitive beekeeping. He was anxious because the customs officers had examined his prop boxes and he feared his equipment would arrive too late. Mia helped him carry the tripod into the lobby and listened as he explained how the bees recognized patterns invisible to most people. For ten minutes neither of them mentioned the airplane. She liked the freedom of being a fellow filmmaker rather than a person attached to a trending headline.
Later she walked to a small grocery store with Asha and bought an apple, crackers, and a chocolate bar. They sat on a low wall beside the river and traded stories about family expectations. Asha wanted to direct fiction films but her parents hoped she would study medicine. Mia had the reverse problem: Mateo would support almost any future that made her happy, but she felt obliged to choose a profession that offered reliable pay. Her mother had died while Mia was twelve, and the family had learned how fragile a budget could become when sickness entered it. Winning a festival commendation would be wonderful. Paying rent every month mattered too.
"What did your mother want for you?" Asha asked gently.
Mia pulled at the corner of her coat. "She wanted me to notice things. She used to say that if you look carefully, people tell you where the important story is before they speak."
Asha pointed to a man patiently teaching a child to feed ducks without throwing bread. "What story is there?"
"Maybe that he's learning to be patient," Mia said. "Maybe the child is teaching him. We don't know yet."
"Exactly. You'd have to ask."
Mia realized how much she needed this ordinary uncertainty. On social media, strangers had already decided what the plane encounter meant. Here she could watch the river, wonder about the people around her, and refrain from forcing a conclusion. When they returned to the festival hotel, Florian had recovered his missing equipment. He raised the tripod in triumph.
For the first time since boarding, Mia could imagine telling people about Dublin without mentioning a stranger in a seat.
Outside, the rain began again. Mia watched it blur the riverfront lights and realized she had reached the city she'd dreamed about, only to discover that the hardest part of traveling might be carrying your own identity through the versions of it other people tried to sell.
CHAPTER 08 · BETWEEN STATIONS
The screening room slowly filled with people who wanted to see Mia's film and people who wanted to see Mia. She could not tell which was which, and she decided not to try. Priya dimmed the lights. The first image on the screen was not an airplane seat but a station platform at 4:12 in the morning, nearly empty except for a worker tightening bolts on a service panel.
In the film, Mateo said, "When I was young, I thought a train ran because somebody pushed a button. Now I know how many people have to care before one button can be safe to press." His voice was quiet. The camera drifted over oil-stained gloves, folded schedules, lunch boxes, and the faces of employees who seldom appeared in public photographs. A cleaner from Ghana described the people who left messages on the station walls. A signal technician explained how he learned to listen to machinery. A commuter spoke about the night a stranger stayed with her after she missed the final train.