Chapter 29
title: "Thirty Days" wordCount: 2403
The envelope from USCIS is thinner than Nora expected—never a good sign—and her hands are shaking so badly she tears the corner before she gets it open.
The words swim. Petition denied. Something about insufficient evidence of extraordinary ability. Thirty days to depart the United States or file an appeal she can't afford.
My phone buzzes against the kitchen counter. Email notification. I set down the letter because my fingers have gone numb, which is stupid—I've burned myself on sheet pans hot enough to blister skin, I've worked eighteen-hour days prepping for pop-ups, but a piece of paper makes my whole body shut down.
The email subject line reads: Re: Q4 Sponsorship Agreement - Termination Notice.
I don't open it. I already know what it says. Lotus Foods has been my biggest sponsor for two years, the reason I could afford this studio apartment instead of sleeping on someone's couch in Queens. The reason I could buy decent camera equipment and organic produce and the kind of sesame oil that actually tastes like something.
The email preview is enough: difficult decision... shifting brand priorities... appreciate your contributions...
My grandmother's jade bracelet catches the morning light coming through the window. She gave it to me the day I left for culinary school, back when my parents still had the restaurant, back when leaving felt like an adventure instead of abandonment.
I pull up my bank account. Three thousand four hundred and twelve dollars. Rent is two thousand. An immigration appeal costs five thousand, minimum, and that's before lawyer fees.
The flour canister on my counter is nearly empty. I was supposed to film a mooncake tutorial this week, something about mid-autumn traditions and my grandmother's recipe, the kind of content that performs well because it makes people feel like they're learning something meaningful while they procrastinate at work.
My laptop is already open to my content calendar. Fifteen videos scheduled through November. Brand deals pending. A collaboration with a kitchen supply company that would pay four thousand dollars if I can just hold on until—
Thirty days.
I close the laptop.
My phone rings. Unknown number with a 718 area code.
"This is Nora."
"Ms. Chen, this is Patricia Kowalski from the Sunset Park Community Garden. Your application for a plot was approved. We have a spot available if you can come by this afternoon for orientation."
I applied three months ago, back when I thought diversifying my content was a smart business move, not a desperate pivot. Garden-to-table cooking. Growing your own ingredients. The kind of wholesome, aspirational lifestyle content that sponsors love.
"This afternoon works," I say, because what else am I going to do? Pack?
The Sunset Park Community Garden sits wedged between a bodega and a three-story walk-up, the kind of place you'd miss if you weren't looking for it. Chain-link fence, hand-painted sign, raised beds in various states of cultivation. Tomato plants sprawling over their cages. Herbs I can't identify from the sidewalk.
Mrs. Kowalski is seventy if she's a day, wearing a sun hat that says Brooklyn Botanical Garden and orthopedic sneakers caked in mud.
"You're the food blogger," she says, not a question. "I watched your dumpling video. You fold them wrong."
"My grandmother would agree with you."
"Smart woman." She hands me a key on a carabiner. "Plot seventeen. Needs work. Last tenant gave up in July."
Plot seventeen is a disaster. Weeds have taken over completely, choking out whatever was planted before. The wooden frame is rotting on one side, boards warped and splitting.
I pull out my phone and frame the shot. Disaster makes good content. Before and after. Transformation narratives. People love watching someone fix a mess, especially when their own lives feel unfixable.
"You'll need lumber," Mrs. Kowalski says. "Hardware store on Fifth Avenue. Tell them Patricia sent you, they'll give you the community rate."
"I can handle it," I say, which is a lie. I've never built anything in my life. I can break down a chicken in four minutes and make a roux without burning it, but carpentry is not in my skill set.
"Daniel can help." Mrs. Kowalski waves at someone behind me. "Daniel! Come meet our new gardener."
I turn around.
He's carrying two eight-foot two-by-fours on one shoulder like they weigh nothing, work gloves tucked into his back pocket. Late twenties, maybe thirty. Black hair that needs a cut, falling into his eyes. The kind of quiet competence that makes you trust someone before they've said a word.
"Daniel Park," he says, setting down the lumber. "You need help with the bed?"
His voice is careful. Measured. Like he's thought about each word before saying it.
"I'm Nora. And yes, apparently I do."
"The frame is rotted through." He crouches next to the bed, testing the boards with his fingers. "You'll need to rebuild the whole thing. Four two-by-sixes, corner brackets, deck screws. I can show you."
"I should probably film this," I say. "For content."
He looks at me then, really looks, and something shifts in his expression. Not judgment, exactly. More like recognition.
"Okay so," I say, because my hands are starting to shake again and I need to focus on something concrete. "I'll set up my camera. You can just... do whatever you'd normally do. Pretend I'm not here."
"That will be difficult."
It's not flirting. His tone is too flat for that. Just a statement of fact.
I set up my tripod and frame the shot: the disaster bed in the foreground, Daniel in the background, the garden stretching out behind us. Natural light. Authentic. The kind of content that performs well because it doesn't look like content.
"Ready when you are," I say.
He pulls on his work gloves and starts dismantling the old frame, prying up boards with a crowbar that appears from somewhere. His movements are efficient. No wasted motion. He doesn't look at the camera once.
I should be narrating. Explaining what he's doing, why it matters, how this connects to food and cooking and the broader themes of my brand. But I just watch him work.
"You're good at this," I say finally.
"I have practice."
"Do you work here? At the garden?"
"Sometimes." He sets aside a rotted board and reaches for another. "Mrs. Kowalski calls when things need fixing."
"So you're a handyman."
"Something like that."
He's lying. I can tell because his shoulders tense, just slightly, and he doesn't look at me when he answers. But I don't push. Everyone's allowed their secrets.
Mrs. Kowalski appears with a wheelbarrow full of compost. "Daniel, you're in her shot."
"It's fine," I say quickly. "It's better with someone in the frame. More dynamic."
"Suit yourself." She dumps the compost next to plot sixteen. "That's your plot, Daniel. Right next to hers. Isn't that convenient?"
Daniel doesn't respond, just keeps working.
I film for twenty minutes. Daniel rebuilds the frame, measures twice, cuts once, drives screws with a cordless drill that sounds expensive. He doesn't speak unless I ask him a direct question, and even then his answers are short. Economical.
When he's finished, the bed is level and sturdy and looks like it could survive a hurricane.
"Thank you," I say. "I'll credit you in the video. Do you have an Instagram or—"
"No need."
"I should at least buy you lunch."
"Did you eat?"
The question catches me off guard. "What?"
"Today. Did you eat today?"
I think about the coffee I had at six a.m., the way my stomach has been twisted in knots since I opened that envelope. "Not yet."
He reaches into a canvas bag I hadn't noticed before and pulls out a container. "Japchae. My aunt made too much."
"I can't take your lunch."
"I already ate." He holds it out. "You should eat."
There's something about the way he says it—not pushy, not performative, just matter-of-fact—that makes me take the container.
"Thank you," I say again.
He nods and starts gathering his tools.
My phone rings. I glance at the screen: Law Office of Rebecca Choi.
My immigration lawyer. The one I can't afford to keep paying.
"I need to take this," I say.
Daniel moves away, giving me privacy, but he doesn't leave. Just starts working on his own plot, turning over soil with a spade.
"Rebecca," I answer.
"Nora. I got the denial letter. We need to talk about next steps."
"I can't afford an appeal."
"I know. But there are other options. You could apply for a different visa category, or—"
"I have thirty days."
"Which is why we need to move quickly. There's one option that would give you immediate status. It's not ideal, but—"
"What option?"
Rebecca hesitates. I can hear her clicking a pen, the way she does when she's about to say something I won't like. "Marriage to a U.S. citizen. If you have someone who would be willing to—"
"I don't."
"I'm not suggesting fraud. But if you were in a genuine relationship—"
"I'm not." My voice comes out sharper than I intended. "I'm not in a relationship. I don't have time for relationships. I barely have time to sleep."
"Then we're looking at departure or an appeal you can't afford. I'm sorry, Nora. I wish I had better news."
She keeps talking—something about gathering evidence, about documentation, about timelines—but I'm not listening anymore. I'm watching Daniel work his plot, methodical and steady, and thinking about how some people's lives are just easier. How some people don't have to worry about visas or sponsorships or whether they'll be allowed to stay in the only place that's ever felt like home.
"I have to go," I say, and hang up before Rebecca can respond.
I sit down on the edge of my new garden bed. The wood is rough under my palms, still smelling like sawdust. Daniel's container of japchae sits next to me, still warm.
"Bad news?" Daniel asks. He's still working, not looking at me, which somehow makes it easier to answer.
"Visa denial. Thirty days to leave the country."
His hands still on the spade. "You are not a citizen?"
"I came here for culinary school. Student visa, then work visa, then I applied for an O-1—extraordinary ability. Apparently I'm not extraordinary enough."
"That is incorrect."
I laugh, but it comes out wrong. Bitter. "You've known me for an hour."
"I watched your videos. Last night, after Mrs. Kowalski mentioned you were coming. You explain things clearly. You make complicated techniques accessible. That is a skill."
"Not extraordinary enough for USCIS."
He sets down the spade and walks over, sitting on the edge of his plot so we're facing each other across the narrow path. "What will you do?"
"I don't know. Go back to China, I guess. Move in with my parents. Pretend the last eight years didn't happen."
"You do not want that."
"No one wants that. But sometimes you don't get what you want, right? Sometimes you just get what you get."
He's quiet for a long moment, studying me with those careful eyes. Then: "Did you eat?"
"You already asked me that."
"You did not eat the japchae."
"I will. I just—" My throat closes up. I look away, blinking hard, because I am not going to cry in front of a stranger in a community garden in Brooklyn. "Let's just focus on the garden. That's why I'm here. Content. I need content."
"You need a solution."
"There isn't one. My lawyer already explained. Unless I magically find a U.S. citizen who wants to marry me in the next thirty days, I'm out of options."
Daniel goes very still. Not frozen—more like he's thinking through something complicated, running calculations in his head.
"I can handle it," he says finally.
"Handle what?"
"Marriage. I can marry you."
I stare at him. The garden sounds suddenly very loud—birds, traffic from the street, someone's radio playing salsa music three plots over.
"That's not funny."
"I am not joking."
"You don't even know me."
"I know enough. You need status. I am a citizen. It is a practical solution."
My heart is doing something complicated in my chest. "That's fraud. That's illegal. We could both go to prison."
"Not if it is real." He says it so calmly, like he's discussing the weather. "We would live together. Share finances. Build a life. That is what marriage is, right?"
"That's not—" I stop. Take a breath. "Okay so, let me make sure I understand. You're proposing a green card marriage. To me. A person you met an hour ago."
"Yes."
"Why?"
He looks away then, and I see it—the first crack in his careful composure. "I have my reasons."
"That's not an answer."
"It is the answer I can give right now."
I should say no. I should walk away. This is insane. This is the kind of thing that ruins lives.
But I'm thinking about my grandmother's bracelet, about the restaurant my parents lost, about eight years of building something that's about to disappear. I'm thinking about Daniel's hands rebuilding that garden bed, steady and sure, like he could fix anything if you gave him the right tools.
"I need time to think about this," I say.
"You have thirty days."
"That's not enough time to—"
"It is enough time to decide if you trust me."
"I don't know you."
"Then get to know me." He stands up, brushing dirt from his jeans. "I am here every afternoon. Plot sixteen. You can ask me anything."
"Anything?"
"Anything you need to know to make your decision."
I open my mouth to respond—to ask what he gets out of this, why he would risk everything for a stranger, what his reasons are—but Mrs. Kowalski's voice cuts through the garden, sharp and urgent.
"Daniel Park, your uncle is on the phone—says it's urgent about the property."
Daniel's whole body tenses. His jaw tightens, and for the first time since I met him, he looks genuinely rattled.
"I have to take this," he says, already moving toward the shed where Mrs. Kowalski is holding out her cell phone.
I watch him go, my heart still racing, the weight of his proposal sitting heavy in my chest. Around me, the garden keeps growing, indifferent to the fact that my entire life just shifted on its axis.
The japchae container is still warm in my hands.