The production coordinator walked me to a waiting cab beyond the compound gates.
"The destination's already set," she said. "The driver knows where to take you."
A middle-aged woman helped load my suitcase into the trunk. I thanked her and climbed into the back seat.
Through the rear window, I watched the compound disappear behind us. The security checkpoint. The high walls. The place that had contained my entire world for weeks.
I'd imagined leaving those gates as a debuting idol. Not with a provisional disqualification notice folded inside my bag.
My phone sat in my lap, still sealed in the plastic pouch production had used when confiscating it. I turned it over, feeling the strange weight of something ordinary that had been forbidden for so long.
I peeled away the seal.
