Sally Lawrence considered the suspicious one-way invitation but came anyway because of a handwritten message on the back: “Remember the old you? I do.” The note forced her to confront the past identity she has tried to bury. Sally recounts how she shed her old nickname, Sal, and remade herself after suddenly becoming rich—altering her hair, wardrobe, and figure to look like a glamorous socialite, even as she privately felt like a wealthy spinster.

Preparing for the uncertain trip to Chicago, Sally overpacked and relied on a flask of whiskey to steady herself. She dreaded memories tied to the Phoenix but, upon boarding, felt nothing—no guilt, no nostalgia—and hoped it would last. Her mind drifted back to a pivotal chain of regrets that began twelve years earlier, when she was photographed during a reckless night out and blackmailed by a man who promised to make the photos disappear in exchange for a favor.

Sally agreed to the scheme, which the blackmailer enforced. The result made her “ridiculously wealthy,” a windfall she now sees as her greatest regret because it came at the cost of “all those boys” who died and a family destroyed—one that had treated her better than her own. She briefly recalls riding the Phoenix’s maiden voyage with a girl named Annie, remembering open windows and crowds along the tracks, before drowning the memory with more whiskey.

Near 8 p.m., Sally heads to the first-class lounge to learn who summoned her. She is unsteady from the alcohol as she moves through the train’s corridors and inter-car connections, telling herself she will drink less in Chicago but taking several more gulps from her flask before arriving.

Inside the lounge, Sally finds Judd Dodge and Herb Pulaski. Her reaction—“Well, shit”—shows the depth of her dread at seeing them again. Judd greets her with a pointed “Nice to see you, too, Sal,” immediately puncturing her crafted persona and reminding her that, despite outward transformation, those who knew her then still see her as fundamentally compromised.