The first package came on a Tuesday, three weeks after Adewale started working nights at the Quick Mart on Jackson Street. UPS dropped it at 2:47 AM, the driver barely looking up from his scanner. The label read "Marcus Chen" with the store's address.
"Nobody here by that name," Adewale said.
The driver shrugged. "Says right here. Sign or refuse."
Adewale signed. He figured Marcus was the guy who'd worked nights before him. The one who'd quit without notice, according to Mr. Park, the owner. Adewale set the package behind the counter next to the cigarette cartons and forgot about it until his shift ended.
The Quick Mart sat between a pho restaurant and a check-cashing place, all of them barred with metal grating after dark. During Adewale's shift, from 11 PM to 7 AM, the customers were predictable: nurses ending their shifts, Uber drivers needing energy drinks, drunks wanting more beer he couldn't legally sell them after 2 AM. Sometimes homeless people asking to use the bathroom he was supposed to say was broken.
He'd been in Seattle fourteen months. Before that, Lagos for forty-three years. He'd been an accountant there, supervised twelve people. Here, he stocked shelves and made change while waiting for the state board to evaluate his credentials. His sister in Maryland kept saying he should have come to her instead, but Seattle was where he'd landed, and moving again cost money he didn't have.
The apartment he shared with three other men was a twenty-minute bus ride from the store. He knew their names and their schedules and nothing else. They worked days; he worked nights. Ships passing. When he got home that Tuesday morning, they were already gone. He made rice and stew, ate standing at the kitchen counter, then slept until 6 PM.
The package was still there when he returned that night. Also, a new one had arrived, according to the day shift guy, Dmitri.
"More shit for Marcus," Dmitri said, pulling on his jacket. "Mr. Park says to throw them out if they keep coming."
"Did Marcus leave a forwarding address?"
Dmitri laughed. "Man, Marcus didn't leave nothing but empty register one Friday night. Cleaned it out, left the door unlocked. Lucky Mr. Park didn't fire us all."
After Dmitri left, Adewale examined the packages. Both addressed to Marcus Chen, both from different senders. The first one felt like books or magazines. The second was lighter, rattled when he shook it.
He called Mr. Park at eleven-thirty.
"Why you calling so late?" Mr. Park's voice was thick with sleep.
"The packages for Marcus Chen. What should I do?"
"I told Dmitri. Throw them away."
"Maybe I could forward them if you have his address—"
"I don't have nothing. That boy stole from me. Throw them away."
The line went dead.
Adewale looked at the packages. In Lagos, he would have known what to do. There were systems, people who knew people. Here, everything felt disconnected, floating. He put the packages back behind the cigarettes.
By Friday, there were five packages. Different sizes, different return addresses. One from Portland, one from California, two local, one with no return address at all. The UPS driver didn't even ask anymore, just had Adewale sign and left.
The store was dead from 3 to 5 AM most nights. Adewale used this time to study for his CPA exam, spreading his books across the counter. But that Friday, he couldn't concentrate. The packages sat in his peripheral vision like accusations.
He opened the first one.
Inside were three photography magazines and a lens cap. The magazines were specific, technical. Black and white photography. Film, not digital. There was a sticky note on one: "These are the ones I mentioned. Page 47 especially. - R"
Page 47 showed a series of night photographs of Seattle. The Space Needle, but from below, just its legs. A bus stop at 3 AM, empty but somehow waiting. A convenience store – Adewale looked closer. Not this one, but similar. The photographer's name was R. Hayashi.
He opened the second package. It contained a pill bottle with the label torn off, three white pills inside. A hospital bracelet cut off, the name portion missing. A child's tooth in a small plastic bag. A key on a Seahawks keychain.
Adewale closed the box quickly. This felt private, medical, wrong to see.
A customer came in, bought cigarettes and scratchers. Then another long stretch of nothing.
He got out his phone, typed "Marcus Chen Seattle" into Google. Too many results. He added "photographer" based on the magazines. Nothing. He tried Facebook. Seventeen Marcus Chens in Seattle. He scrolled through them during the dead hours, looking for one that seemed like someone who'd work night shift at a convenience store.
The sixth package arrived Monday. Return address was local, a Lily Chen on Capitol Hill. Adewale googled her. Real estate agent, professional headshot, email address on her company website.
He wrote the email during his lunch break at 3 AM, eating a microwaved burrito while choosing his words carefully:
"Dear Ms. Chen, I am working at Quick Mart on Jackson Street where Marcus Chen used to work. Packages keep arriving for him. The owner says to throw away, but I thought maybe you are family? If you know how to reach him, please let me know. Respectfully, Adewale Okonkwo"
She replied within ten minutes: "Is this some kind of sick joke?"
He wrote back: "No joke. I have six packages. I can leave them somewhere for you to collect."
"I'll come there. Tonight. What time?"
"I work 11 PM to 7 AM."
"I'll be there at midnight."
She arrived at 12:15, parking a white Lexus in the handicapped spot. Adewale knew it was her before she entered – the purposeful walk, the expensive coat, the way she paused at the door like she was preparing herself.
"You're Adewale?"
"Yes."
She looked around the store like she was cataloging it. The fluorescent lights made everyone look sick, but she looked particularly gray.
"How long have you worked here?"
"Three weeks now. Almost four."
"And Marcus worked here before you?"
"Yes. He quit suddenly, the owner said."
She laughed, but not like anything was funny. "That's one way to put it. Can I see the packages?"
He brought them from behind the counter, set them on the surface between the coffee machine and the lottery ticket display. She touched the one with her return address.
"This is stuff from his apartment. I cleaned it out last month when he didn't pay rent. I didn't know where to send it. This was the last address I had for him." She picked up another package, read the return address. "Portland. His ex-girlfriend lives there." Another. "This is from our cousin in California."
"You don't know where he is?"
She shook her head. "We haven't really talked in two years. We had a fight about... it doesn't matter. Family stuff. Money stuff. After our dad died."
A customer came in, bought an energy drink, left. Lily stayed by the counter, touching the packages but not opening them.
"He's an addict," she said suddenly. "Gambling mostly, but also pills sometimes. That's probably what some of this is. People he owes money to, or people who don't know he's gone." She looked at Adewale. "You're not from here."
"Nigeria."
"How long?"
"Fourteen months."
"Family here?"
"No. My family is home. I send money."
She nodded like this explained something. "Marcus used to take pictures. Was good at it, too. He'd come in here during his shift and develop them in the bathroom when they still had the darkroom equipment at the community college. Said the night was when you could see the city clearly, when everyone's guard was down."
"The owner, Mr. Park, he said Marcus stole from the register."
"Probably did. When he's using, he does things. Then he disappears, then he comes back sorry. Except this time he hasn't come back." She pulled out her phone. "What's your number? In case more packages come."
He gave it to her. She started to gather the packages, then stopped.
"You could have just thrown these away."
"In Nigeria," Adewale said, then stopped. How to explain? "In Nigeria, we don't throw away people's things. Someone always knows someone who knows where they are."
"But not here."
"No. Not here."
She took the packages, struggling to carry them all. He didn't offer to help – she didn't seem like she'd want it. At the door, she turned.
"If more come, just text me. I'll pick them up."
After she left, the store felt emptier. Adewale went back to his CPA books but couldn't focus. He thought about Marcus Chen, working these same hours, developing photographs in community college darkrooms, stealing from the register. Everyone carried their ghosts.
More packages came. One or two a week. Adewale texted Lily each time. She'd arrive after midnight, always in the same expensive coat, always with that same gray exhaustion. Sometimes she'd buy a coffee, doctor it with too much sugar, drink it while looking out the window at the empty street.
"This one's from his high school friend," she'd say. Or, "This is probably medicine. He's diabetic. Was diabetic. Is diabetic, wherever he is."
One night she opened a package right there at the counter. Inside were photographs. Black and white, all of Seattle at night. She spread them out between the energy drinks and the beef jerky.
"He took these," she said. "This is our father's restaurant. Was. It's a Starbucks now." She pointed to another. "This is where we lived when we first came here. I was seven, he was ten."
The photos were good. Adewale could see that even knowing nothing about photography. They caught something true about the empty hours, the way the city looked when it thought no one was watching.
"Why did you fight?" Adewale asked. "You and Marcus."
Lily gathered the photos slowly. "When our father died, he left the restaurant to both of us. I wanted to sell. Marcus wanted to keep it running. But he couldn't manage it, not with his problems. I sold it anyway. Had power of attorney." She put the photos back in the envelope. "He said I killed the last piece of our father. Maybe he was right."
"Family is complicated."
"You have siblings?"
"Three sisters. Two brothers. All in Nigeria except one sister in Maryland."
"Do you talk?"
"WhatsApp every day. They complain I don't send enough money." He smiled to show it was a joke, though it wasn't really.
"Marcus and I used to be close. When we were kids, new here, it was us against everything. Then you grow up and become different people."
A drunk came in, wanting beer. Adewale explained the law about alcohol sales after 2 AM. The drunk argued, then left. Lily watched the whole interaction.
"You're patient," she said.
"It's just a job."
"Marcus wasn't patient. He'd tell them to fuck off. That's probably why Mr. Park hired you. You're nothing like him."
She left with the photographs. Adewale went back to studying, but the formulas swam on the page. He thought about Marcus and Lily as children, new to Seattle like he was new. Us against everything.
The packages kept coming through October into November. The rain started, the Seattle rain everyone had warned him about. His apartment grew mold in the corners. The bus was always late. He developed a cough that wouldn't go away.
Lily came less frequently, letting packages accumulate. When she did come, she looked worse. Thinner, more gray. She'd stopped fixing her hair nicely, just pulled it back in a ponytail.
"Any word from him?" Adewale asked one night.
"No. I hired a private investigator. Waste of money. He's either dead or doesn't want to be found."
"You don't think he's dead."
"No. He's done this before, just never for this long. He's probably in Vancouver. Or California. Somewhere starting over with a new name, new job. Until he fucks that up too."
She said it bitterly, but Adewale heard the fear underneath. In Lagos, his mother used to say the opposite of love wasn't hate but fear. Fear that love was wasted, that care was pointless.
One night in early December, no packages had come for a week. Adewale was deep in his studying when Lily walked in at 1 AM. No coat despite the rain. She was soaked.
"Did packages come?"
"No. Nothing this week."
She stood there dripping on the linoleum. "My car broke down. Six blocks away."
"Do you want to call someone?"
"Like who?" She laughed that unfunny laugh. "Can I just... can I sit for a minute?"
He brought her paper towels from the bathroom. She dried her face, her hands, but her clothes were soaked through. She was shivering.
"There's a heater in the back room," he said.
He wasn't supposed to let anyone in the back room, but Mr. Park would never know. She sat on a milk crate next to the space heater, water pooling around her expensive shoes. Adewale brought her the coffee he'd made for himself.
"I keep thinking he'll call," she said. "Every time my phone rings. For two years, I didn't want him to call. Now I pray for it."
"He knows you love him."
"How? How would he know that? The last thing I said to him was that he was just like our father's worst parts. That our father would be ashamed of him." She was crying now, quietly. "I sold our father's restaurant to strangers who turned it into a Starbucks. Who should be ashamed?"
Adewale didn't know what to say. In Lagos, there would be aunties, uncles, cousins to mediate, to force reconciliation. Here, people could just disappear.
She stayed in the back room for an hour. When she came out, she'd stopped crying. She called an Uber on her phone.
"Thank you," she said. "For the packages. For tonight. For everything."
"It's nothing."
"It's not nothing. You're a good person, Adewale. I hope your family knows that."
After she left, he found a hundred-dollar bill on the milk crate. He texted her: "You left money."
She texted back: "Tips for the coffee."
He kept the money. His sister in Maryland needed help with her rent.
The packages stopped coming. December turned to January. Lily stopped coming too. Adewale passed his first CPA exam section, started studying for the second. The overnight shifts blended together, same faces, same transactions, same fluorescent buzz.
Then, on a Tuesday in late January, a package arrived. But it wasn't for Marcus Chen. It was addressed to Adewale Okonkwo, care of Quick Mart.
He opened it immediately. Inside was a photograph, black and white. The Quick Mart at 3 AM, taken from across the street. Through the window, barely visible but there, was Adewale himself, bent over his books at the counter. There was a sticky note: "Found this in my brother's things. Thought you should have it. He must have taken it before he left. Thank you for everything. - L"
Adewale looked at the photograph for a long time. He'd never seen himself the way Americans saw him – working alone in the night, studying in the fluorescent light, far from home. Marcus had seen him, though. Before they'd even met, Marcus had seen him and found something worth photographing.
He put the photo in his wallet, behind the picture of his family in Lagos.
The next night, another package came. This one was for Marcus Chen again, but the return address made Adewale's heartbeat quicken. It was from Marcus Chen himself, sent from Spokane.
He texted Lily immediately: "Package came. From Marcus."
She arrived in twenty minutes, must have broken speed limits. Her hands shook as she opened it.
Inside was a single photograph and a note. The photograph was of Lily and Marcus as children, maybe eight and eleven, standing in front of their father's restaurant. The note said: "Tell her I'm okay. I'm getting help. I'll call when I'm ready. Thank you for keeping my things. - M"
Lily read the note three times, then looked at Adewale.
"He sent it to you. Not to me, to you."
"He knew you'd come for it."
"He knew you'd make sure I got it." She held the photograph carefully, like it might dissolve. "He's alive."
"Yes."
"He's okay."
"He says so."
She started crying again, but different tears this time. Relief, maybe. Or just exhaustion finally breaking.
"Can I buy you dinner?" she asked suddenly. "Not now, obviously. But sometime? When you're not working?"
"I work every night."
"Breakfast then. When you get off shift."
Adewale thought about it. He ate breakfast alone every day, rice and stew in his empty apartment.
"Okay," he said.
She smiled, the first real smile he'd seen from her. "I know a place. Vietnamese. They open at 6 AM for the fishermen. Best pho in Seattle."
She left with the photograph and note. Adewale went back to his studying, but the formulas looked different somehow. Clearer. Like photographing something at night – when the distractions were gone, you could see what was really there.
At 3 AM, the dead time, he walked to the window and looked out at Jackson Street. Empty, wet, streetlights reflecting on pavement. He thought about Marcus somewhere in Spokane, getting help. Lily in her expensive apartment, holding that childhood photograph. His own family in Lagos, waking up to a new day.
Everyone was connected by invisible threads, packages sent through the night, received by strangers who became something more. Or maybe that was too sentimental. Maybe it was simpler: people needed their things, and someone had to make sure they got them.
A customer came in, bought cigarettes. Then another quiet hour. Adewale studied his accounting principles, the numbers adding up to equal debits and credits, everything balancing in the end.
The packages kept coming. Not for Marcus anymore, but for other people, other stores, misdelivered or wrongly addressed. Adewale always tried to find their rightful owners. Sometimes he succeeded. It was a small thing, but small things added up. Like credits and debits. Like photographs taken one at a time.
When his shift ended and Dmitri arrived, Adewale caught the bus home. The morning commuters were starting their day, checking phones, drinking coffee. He stood among them, foreign and familiar at once, carrying his textbooks and that photograph of himself in his wallet, proof that he existed here, that someone had seen him.
The rain had stopped. Weak sunlight filtered through the clouds. His phone buzzed with a text from Lily: "Breakfast Thursday? After your shift?"
He texted back: "Yes."
The bus moved through the waking city. Adewale closed his eyes, not sleeping but resting. In five hours he'd wake up, eat, study, go back to work. The same routine, but somehow different now. Connected.
He thought about Marcus's note: "Tell her I'm okay." Not "tell my sister," but "tell her," like Adewale would know who "her" meant. Like they were all part of something together, even scattered as they were.
His stop came. He walked to his apartment, climbing the stairs that always smelled like cooking oil and detergent. His roommates were getting ready for work, nodding at him as they passed. Ships in the morning.
In his room, he took out the photograph Lily had given him – himself at the counter, studying. He propped it against his accounting textbook. Evidence of his American life, captured by someone who'd disappeared but left traces everywhere, in packages that arrived in the night, in photographs of empty streets, in the space between strangers that sometimes, unexpectedly, closed.
He lay down to sleep as the city woke up around him. Tomorrow there would be more packages, more studying, more long hours under fluorescent lights. But also breakfast with someone who understood night shifts and family complications and the way people could vanish but still somehow remain.
The morning light crept through his blinds. Somewhere, Marcus was getting help. Somewhere, Lily was showing houses to strangers. Somewhere, his family in Lagos was ending their day.
Everyone moving through their hours, carrying their ghosts, sending packages through the dark to addresses they hoped were still good, to people they hoped still cared enough to sign for them.
Adewale slept, and dreamed of nothing, which was its own kind of peace.