The blond Russian youth made an upward climbing gesture.

"After leaving Moscow, I first flew to Argentina—thankfully visa-free—then traveled north, enduring countless hardships to reach the US-Mexico border. At the time, I was the only Russian who couldn’t speak English. A few South Americans deliberately beat me up, but you were the only one who stepped in to help. You, I, and the boss pooled our money to hire the same immigration lawyer, rented a place together, and prepared for our asylum interviews. You shared a lot about the truths that can’t be seen in Russia or China and explained how to talk to the free and democratic camp, making it easier for the immigration officers to believe us.” Толя added, “When we first met, you were really miserable—like a stray cat beaten into a rag. You stared off into space all day, but when you were lucid, you were quite chatty."

The restaurant manager had picked up an unconscious, injured Nemo in the jungle along the border, assuming he was a lost companion attempting to cross illegally.

Out of solidarity and compassion for a fellow traveler, he dragged the unlucky kid into the land of the free. After waking up, the curly-haired young man had total amnesia and couldn’t answer any questions about his identity, yet his English was exceptionally fluent. The manager figured he must’ve at least had a college degree back home, lamenting the misfortune, and decided to give him a helping hand.

Nemo nudged his roommate to first introduce The manager—the man who had saved his life. After all, he owed him a great deal and would rely on him for work. His own story could wait.

"When your injuries weren’t healed yet, you couldn’t remember boss’s name. In the shelter, you just called him ‘Hey.’ Now, it’s like you’re deliberately only calling him ‘Boss’, his name is ‘Lu Chui qiu’ or something?" The manager's Chinese name is so hard to pronounce that it turns into something tragic in a Russian’s mouth.

"Forget it. I’ll ask him myself," Nemo replied, looking defeated.

"Boss named you after a character from 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. He used to make a living writing web novels in China. But then, somehow, some content offended the authorities, and his competitors reported him. He got sentenced to ten years, and on top of that, spent an extra eight months in a black jail for no good reason. When he finally got out, he was a completely hardened man.” Толя skillfully pulled up photos of the restaurant manager and his wife on his phone—a routine part of helping Nemo rebuild his memories.

In the photo, a burly, angry-looking middle-aged man stood with his arms crossed and legs apart, wearing a tight white T-shirt and jeans. His round belly looked about six months pregnant. He stared straight at the camera with pursed lips, standing by a large window. Beside him, a petite, cheerful woman looped her arms around his elbows. The two appeared to be quite intimate. The man’s square jaw, heavy features, and gray-tinted, upward-spiked short hair made him look older than his actual forty years—like he could burst into singing The Battle of Red Cliffs at any moment.

"Boss thought you were from the South at first because you speak softly. Sunny Jie.*—boss’s wife—is Taiwanese. She immigrated to the US after her divorce. She swears your accent, word choices, and subconscious habits scream Taiwan. Even when you got burned in the kitchen, you’d shout ‘Gan!’” Толя proudly shouted the expletive with a perfect Taiwanese accent, flashing a white-toothed grin.

"Sunny Jie is ten years older than Boss—surprised, huh? Are all Taiwanese people vampires? Before Boss escaped from China, he and Sunny Jie were online friends. Surviving the life-or-death trek across the border, Sunny Jie was overjoyed to tears when she knew he was alive. She insisted we find her. Boss missed Sunny Jie too—he got bitten by a venomous snake and broke his ankle in the jungle, but his determination to see her kept him going. It was a miracle fueled by love.”

Nemo was caught off guard and force-fed a mouthful of public displays of affection, his skin crawling as he awkwardly rubbed his back against the headboard.

"Sunny Jie wasn’t having it easy back then either. The restaurant belonged to her father, but her skills were limited to accounting and cleaning—she had no clue how to bring in customers. To make things worse, thugs frequently showed up demanding protection money. She didn’t want us to starve, so Boss seized the opportunity to step in. He suggested playing the role of the ‘don’t-mess-with-me’ manager, you’d cook, and I’d wait tables. Perfect teamwork!"

"They got married last week! Boss has finally, officially, earned his place. We were all groomsmen. They just got back from their honeymoon, and then you suddenly lost your memory again. No wonder Boss is losing his mind! Don’t worry—Sunny Jie dotes on you. Boss might scold you, but he won’t deduct a single dollar from your pay."

So, calling him "Boss" before his wedding was sarcasm? Nemo almost couldn’t resist the urge to retort. He propped his face up with one hand, trying to hide his twitching mouth.

"How did I get my asylum application approved?" Nemo realized his current situation was far better than being an illegal border crosser. Relieved, he was curious—just how tragic was his past to have convinced the immigration officer to let him in? Two days ago, he had been criticizing illegal immigrants with Texans. Who’d have thought he’d wind up on the other side of the wire fence in a parallel world?

Толя rubbed his chin, studying the exhausted youth with amusement. Nemo’s pale face, thin build, and docile demeanor matched the stereotype of an Asian who would hand over his wallet at the first sign of trouble—one of those quiet, law-abiding urbanites essential to American cities. They worked hard, raised families, and never caused trouble.

"You had signs of electric shock injuries, defensive wounds, evidence of prolonged restraint, and fractures from being beaten with blunt objects—not to mention severe amnesia. Here, I even applied iodine for you. I couldn’t forget those injuries even if I tried.” Толя reached into Nemo’s hair, gently pressing two spots.

Nemo touched his head and confirmed—there were indeed slightly uneven scars.

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“Taiwanese people don’t need to sneak across the US-Mexico border. Your passports are powerful. No wonder everyone thought you’d been kidnapped.”

"During the credible fear interview, the immigration officer realized that, although you couldn’t recall your personal information, you could fluently discuss the Hong Kong anti-extradition protests. You were so emotionally charged throughout the interview. You also described the CCP’s human rights violations in extraordinary detail. Then they threw in bonus questions about the Taiwan Strait crisis, and you answered so well, even better than the CIA. After reviewing hospital reports, the officer concluded that you’d faced life-threatening danger and sustained irreversible memory loss from your injuries during the crossing. They approved your asylum application."

Толя recited the story like he was giving a presentation, so smoothly that it sounded rehearsed.

"Your case was unusual. Apparently, there was a suspicious man in a suit present during the interview. He suggested the officer hand you a laptop to see what you’d do. You immediately opened World of Warcraft and logged in without even looking at the keyboard. But the account you entered didn’t exist, and you were furious. The lawyer thinks you should keep playing that game—maybe a fellow player will recognize you and reveal your true identity. I wasn’t there; this is all what you told me yourself."

"I believe you." Nemo had already experienced the absurdity of waking up in a parallel world. He wasn’t about to reject this kindness.

Learning that Толя and Boss had known him only in his amnesiac state brought him relief. Curiosity about his past was outweighed by his focus on surviving and improving his life in this world.

Being thrown into the jungle on the border and left half-dead usually happened for one of two reasons: owing a debt or making enemies with some ruthless individual. But from the lack of any sense that this body could speak Spanish, Nemo suspected its original owner likely lived on the American side. That was as far as he was willing to speculate about the past. For Nemo, life only became meaningful after meeting Boss and Толя, marking the beginning of his time in America.

"Nemo, when you meet with lawyers or immigration officers, you always instinctively start the conversation in English. It's too natural, like you've been chatting with American friends all your life. You even use slang and can recite the Declaration of Independence and sing the national anthem! They suspected you were some dissident living in America, kidnapped by Chinese secret police, beaten, and smuggled across the border, only dropping the theory when they couldn't find any missing persons or criminal records that matched you."

In other words, even if Nemo had lived in the U.S. before, he was probably an undocumented immigrant.

Never underestimate a seasoned Taiwanese keyboard warrior with twenty years of online debate experience. When you've spent a decade playing games day and night with someone from Texas, even eating and living together for a week, it's hard not to pick up the American national anthem. Nemo could spout lines like "all men are created equal" without missing a beat—anything the original owner knew, he had now inherited.

"Anyway," Толя added, "no Chinese spy could fake your sharp tongue or... free-spirited mindset. As Boss would say in his hometown slang, you're the type to '日天日地', meaning fxxk the whole world." Толя flashed a rock 'n' roll hand sign with both hands.

"Oh, Толя, I really don’t remember."

"Before you recovered, Boss and I had to reintroduce ourselves to you every other day. We got used to it! Back in the refugee English classes, nobody liked me because I was Russian and our motherland was invading Ukraine. You were the only one who’d teach me English, no matter how many times I needed it repeated. As long as you didn’t charge tuition, I was happy to be your memory box, brother."

"Forgetting painful memories might not be so bad," Толя comforted him. "Your life has already restarted!"

Not just his life. Yesterday, Nemo had also updated his worldview and personal beliefs. He couldn’t even begin to explain it.

"Why did you leave Moscow?" Nemo asked.

"My girlfriend was Ukrainian. She went missing in Bucha. I was so furious that I led protests against the 'special military operation.' It was an invasion! A family acquaintance bribed the police to get me out of trouble, and I fled before being drafted. If I’d stayed in Moscow, I’d definitely be charged with treason and locked up for twenty years. My protest videos are still on Twitter—I was genuinely terrified, running for my life. A lot of Americans online said they wanted to help me, so I decided to take a chance. My face had already been exposed, so escaping with other refugees was risky. An informant would easily tip off the authorities, and then agents would drag me back to be executed. Going solo was safer." Толя thumped his chest, breathing heavily.

As expected from someone raised in a former communist country, Толя’s survival instincts were sharper than the average refugee.

Since arriving in the U.S., his Russian roommate had kept an incredibly low profile, refusing to capitalize on his anti-war fame or monetize his story. Partly because he disliked exposing his private life, but also to avoid bringing trouble to his friends and family back in Moscow.

"You went to the bar last night to hit on girls?"

Толя crossed his arms in mock horror, then suddenly quieted down. His blue eyes gazed deeply at Nemo.

"We hadn’t been together long before we were torn apart. It wasn’t a deep relationship, but it still hurts. She was such a kind girl. If it weren’t for taking care of her disabled grandmother, she could have escaped the country in time," Толя murmured, muttering phrases like "a trampled flower" and "vanished beauty," before sniffing softly.

The two men sat in silence for a moment before sighing simultaneously.

Nemo thought for a moment and asked, "Do you still have any records about me? Copies of the asylum forms, medical reports from the hospital? If I keep losing my memory, do I have a diary or something similar?"

"No diary. You were too lazy to write one. Work was exhausting, and after your shift, you’d just stay home surfing the internet. You never spent the night out or brought women over—kind of a geek. Sunny Jie called it 'keeping yourself pure.' It is unhealthy to repress yourself like that, but considering how badly injured you were before, playing it safe wasn’t a bad idea. You used to tell me about all the crazy news happening everywhere. If you forget something, you can just ask me directly. I’ll go grab the documents, but promise me this: after reviewing the evidence, you’ll take it easy and rest today. No running around."

Nemo silently noted that he might have hidden critical information online, adding it to his to-do list.

He did want to go out and explore the mysterious Lone Star City, but Толя knew him too well... How could his roommate be this annoyingly perceptive about the current him, even after crossing universes? Nemo chalked it up to isotopes reacting in similar ways.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out that neither of them could afford expensive private health insurance. Nemo had no idea what kind of welfare the city offered to immigrants, but he was certain he shouldn’t waste time in a hospital. As a chef, hygiene and health were paramount. Besides, he had a computer and internet access—more than enough to experience the world.

While Толя went to fetch the documents, Nemo headed to the bathroom to brush his teeth and wash his face. The bitter taste in his mouth finally faded, leaving him feeling much more refreshed. He even called the restaurant manager to wish him a happy honeymoon (on purpose), earning himself a loud scolding. Beneath the thunderous reprimands was unmistakable, rough-edged concern. Another person added to the list of those forbidding him from going out.

Back in bed, Nemo fiddled absentmindedly with his social security card, flipping it between his fingers.