Jordan, 20.

Garneau apartment, 9:14 a.m. Jordan wakes to seventeen notifications, a hangover, and a sky that's the colour of wet cement. The first text is from their mom in Saskatoon: "You'll need ID at the border now. Are you coming home for Thanksgiving?"

The second text is from their best friend Riya. She's transferring to U of S at the end of the semester. Her parents called her last night. They're not paying out-of-country tuition for a Saskatchewan kid to stay in Edmonton.

Jordan opens their email. Their summer co-op offer — a research position at the National Research Council lab in Ottawa — has been rescinded. The wording is polite. The phrase "federal hiring restrictions" appears twice.

Half of Jordan's tuition is covered by a Canada Student Loan. The loan terms are now in dispute — not cancelled, not transferred, just disputed. Jordan has, at this moment, no idea whether they owe anyone any money or, equivalently, whether anyone owes them any.

Class at eleven. Thermodynamics, taught by a Scottish professor who has lived in Edmonton for twenty-two years. He spends the first ten minutes of class talking, quietly and without notes, about how much he loves this place. Then he draws a Carnot cycle on the board.

Lunch in the engineering building atrium. Riya is there. They don't talk about her transfer. They talk about a TA who is famously bad at marking. They are both, Jordan realizes later, being very gentle with each other.

Walking home through Quad, Jordan sees the flag pole and notices that the flag is gone. Not lowered. Just gone. Somebody, presumably the university administration, is figuring out what to put up next.

That night they text their mom back: "Coming home for Thanksgiving. I'll bring my passport." They have never owned a passport.