And yet somehow, even as candidates with audacious pedigrees and lifelong designs on the presidency fell by the wayside, Yang survived. More than that, he thrived, raising ridiculous sums of money and generating a grassroots enthusiasm nearly unparalleled in the post-Obama era of the Democratic Party.

None of this makes Yang a favorite to win the Democratic nomination or the White House. When—if—all the votes in Iowa are ever counted, Yang will do poorly.

It does, however, make him a very interesting candidate in a very interesting election in a very interesting time for America. In a period of massive political disruption, Democrats are largely left choosing between conventional figures. A former vice president. Three U.S. senators. Even the supposed insurgent, a gay, small-town mayor from the Midwest, is a Harvard and McKinsey alum who once ran for national party chairman. The remaining two candidates are the party’s two richest political donors.

The only true maverick is Yang.

To live the moment through his eyes, to go inside a political campaign with the ultimate outsider, I spent caucus day with Yang traversing the state of Iowa. What follows is a diary of the man and his thoughts, a perspective of politics on the biggest stage with the smallest amount to lose.

***

9:59 a.m.

Andrew and Evelyn Yang emerge from the West Des Moines Marriott, hand in hand, waving to a few friends and supporters before climbing aboard the campaign bus. Beneath a long black overcoat Andrew his wearing his usual navy jacket and dark slacks with a power blue shirt, an American flag scarf draped around his neck; Evelyn is wearing a navy blazer over a bright red, knee-length dress with beige heels and a matching handbag.

Walking to the back of the campaign bus, the candidate flops down on a black couch and lets out a half-yawn. He looks withered. Yang had to be up at 5 a.m. for a seven-minute television appearance—a coveted hit on “Morning Joe”—so he crawled into bed at 11 p.m., planning for the theoretical six hours of sleep that has evaded him in recent weeks. But, he says with a wince, he “tossed and turned,” unable to rid his body of the anticipation any presidential candidate, especially a first-time candidate for anything, must feel in the hours before voting begins. “But I woke up in a good mood,” he smiles.

If Yang is still feeling jittery, it doesn’t show. He leans back, eyes fixed on a small television showing the impeachment trial on CNN, and reaches for a blue bag of Welch’s fruit snacks. Tossing them into his mouth like a kid eating popcorn, he says there’s no choice but to be at peace with things in this late hour. “There’s a range of outcomes tonight, and nothing I do today can really change those outcomes,” he says. “So, I’m at peace with whatever happens.”

10:14 a.m.

As the bus lurches to life, twisting out of the Marriott parking lot and aiming in the direction of the college town of Grinnell, Yang turns to his staff. With him in the back of the bus are his campaign manager Zach Graumann and consultant Edward Chapman. They are seated in black armchairs at a makeshift command center, both hunched over Chapman’s laptop on a small, oatmeal-colored table; above them are four small television monitors bordering a massive Sony flatscreen. “So, Edward,” Yang says, his tone betraying little more than a casual curiosity. “What’s going to happen tonight?”

“There’s really a range of outcomes,” Chapman responds cautiously.

Sensing his friend’s reluctance to get terribly specific, Yang puts on his analyst hat. “Here are the outcomes I see,” he says. “There’s a good sixth, a bad sixth, fifth, fourth….” He thinks long and hard. “Or third.”

The issue is really less about specific placement. What Yang and his team care about is proximity to his opponents; the difference between a “good sixth” place and a “bad sixth” place is the difference between getting blown out and being clustered together with the other candidates.

Whatever his finish tonight, it will be a success for Yang. Having entered the 2020 campaign as a political nobody—a successful entrepreneur with no establishment connections to speak of, save a ceremonial link to the Obama administration—he finds himself still standing on the day of the Iowa caucuses, running through the tape on a track that long ago tripped up big-name senators, governors and members of Congress. And it’s not like he’s limping toward the finish line: Yang raised more than $16.5 million in the fourth quarter of 2019, a remarkable haul given his polling well outside the top tier of candidates. (For reference, Joe Biden raised $15.7 million in the third quarter of 2019.)

But money—although he’s raised gobs of it—isn’t the measure of Yang’s success. Once widely dismissed as a quixotic candidate with a fringe platform, the obscure, even-keeled Asian guy with little infrastructure and even less experience somehow built a movement. Steering clear of the outrage-identity complex on the left and building a message around communities, relationships and dignity, Yang forged a unique connection with workers and citizens who feel increasingly left behind by the new economy. Before long, the #YangGang became a dominant presence online(if not always on the ground), powered by an intensity of belief in the man and his message. Ron Paul and Bernie Sanders spent decades in Congress cultivating niche followings before they went national. Yang has, in the space of two years, created a revolution of his own, one that will endure regardless of tonight’s results.

Did he ever imagine this?

“This is definitely the high end,” he says. “The people coming out, giving their time, knocking doors. The touching stories people tell me, how this campaign brought them back from depression. You can’t predict any of that. I did think I would have a distinct voice, and a distinct lane, the whole time. But this…”

10:41 a.m.

“Can you imagine,” says Graumann, the campaign manager, “working so hard, going all over Iowa for a year, then on caucus day you’re in D.C.?”

Yang shakes his head.

The impeachment proceedings are live on CNN, and Yang is trying to put himself in the shoes of his rivals—Sanders, Elizabeth Warren, Amy Klobuchar—who are inside the chamber instead of out on the campaign trail. “If you think this is boring to watch on TV,” Yang smiles, “imagine being stuck in that room with no iPhone.”

Has it occurred to Yang, I wonder, if the reward he would get for winning the presidency is working with the United States Congress?

“I’m actually excited about that. Is D.C. my favorite town? No. But as president would I be able to work these people? Sure. I like people, so I’ll go in with an open mind,” he says. “It’s all about finding common ground. That’s why I’m for bringing back earmarks. Bring back the carrots. You need them to get stuff done.”

After a brief interlude discussing the strangest aspect of his campaign (people tattooing his face on their bodies) and upcoming events with comedian friends (he’s enlisted the help of Dave Chapelle, Norm MacDonald and Ken Jeong), Yang returns to the issue of Congress, thinking out loud about the inflated sense of polarization given by the hearings playing out on television. He has been intentional, throughout his campaign, not to attack other rivals—not simply because he’s a gentleman by nature, but because it feeds the sharp downward spiral of our politics.

“Most Americans are normal people just trying to do their best,” he says. That’s a deliberate choice of words for Yang, who titled his campaign manifesto “The War on Normal People” and has aggressively portrayed himself as one.

He goes on: “The other candidates in this race are patriots. Donald Trump voters are patriots. We’re all just trying to do the best we can.”

Graumann jumps in. “We’ve done 64 town halls in the last 16 days, and we haven’t gotten a single question about impeachment,” he says. “Actually, I’m not sure we’ve ever had one.”

Yang stares ahead and the conversation goes quiet. Finally, he speaks up. “It makes you wonder if impeaching him was a positive.”

11:13 a.m.

As we pull into Grinnell, nearing a modest campaign office, Evelyn Yang is trying to remember the last time she saw her husband nervous.

It started earlier in the ride, when Andrew Yang himself could not recall, taking long, dramatic pauses before announcing, “Still thinking.” Finally, he said, it was “when I had to ask someone out on a date, but now that I’m married, Evelyn has to say yes. So, I’m not nervous anymore.”

The Yangs are a refreshingly loving and, yes, normal couple. They tease, take photos of one another, give back rubs and exchange knowing looks. At one point, when Evelyn giddily produces a pin someone gave her that depicts a shirtless, muscle-shredded cartoon likeness of Andrew, her husband deadpans: “Those were the days.”

As we prepared to deboard the bus, Andrew finally comes up with the answer: He was last nervous when giving the best man’s speech at his brother’s wedding. Evelyn asks about the time, more recently, that he officiated his cousin’s nuptials.

“Nah,” Yang smirks. “I winged that shit.”

Speaking of winging shit, Yang’s pep talk in Grinnell isn’t quite the stuff of General Patton.

“It’s freakin’ caucus day!” he cries, giving a slight shimmy of the hips (like a young Elvis) as the room of volunteers erupts with applause. Explaining the value of each and every caucus-goer, Yang says all the good vibes and well-wishes mean nothing without turnout on the ground.

“My phone’s blowing up, everyone’s like, ‘good luck, Andrew, good luck!’ And you know what I’m sending back to them? ‘Shut up and call somebody.’” The crowd laughs. “Don’t text me. Text an Iowan, dumbass.” Louder, rolling laughter. “That’s what I’m saying to them all.”

“My phone’s blowing up, everyone’s like, ‘good luck, Andrew, good luck!’ And you know what I’m sending back to them? ‘Shut up and call somebody.’ Don’t text me. Text an Iowan, dumbass.”

Yang tries to turn serious. “You all know where the rubber hits the road. You know this is where the action is. Every call, every door-knock, every face-to-face convo, every little old lady you help to the caucus site…” He starts to crack up. “Every shuttle brought in…” He can’t stop giggling. “I was going to make another joke.” Spurred on, he says, “Every unwilling person you knock unconscious and drag to the caucus site.” He struggles against the heaving of his chest. “If you prop them up, and make them seem like they’re conscious”—he can barely finish—“each one of those people…”

His staff is laughing, too, but they’re also a tad mystified, trading looks. They’ve never seen such a goofy side in public. “Do we need to go?” Graumann shouts from the back of the room.

After regaining his composure and giving a few parting words of inspiration, Yang says he’ll stick around for selfies and autographs. After all the work these people have done on his behalf, the candidate wants to reward them. As the room envelops him, Yang is bouncing on the soles of his black shoes, “Eye of the Tiger” banging from a stereo.

12:02 p.m.

Yang is a positive person. He has a stillness about him, a composure that makes him both easy to admire and hard to analyze. It’s clear that he tries to see the good in people and situations, guarding against the tilting of his equilibrium. What’s unclear is whether there’s anything he’s holding onto, regrets or grievances that he refuses to let show. It’s impossible to run for president and not walk away with scars; I want to know where his wounds are and how he came by them.

As we talk, cruising eastbound on Interstate-80, it becomes evident there is one injury nagging at Yang: the media’s treatment of his campaign.

The slights have been large and small, significant and symbolic. Most recently there was CNBC’s egregious error, straight out of a sketch comedy skit, of showing a random Asian man’s photo on a graphic explaining the candidates’ fundraising numbers. “I laughed,” he says with a shrug, “thinking it’d be good for us, because it was so dumb we might get a news cycle out of it.”

He snorts, shoveling a finger-load of Cheez-Its into his mouth. As the days have gotten longer, and the sleep has gotten scarcer, and the germs have gotten nastier, the weary candidate finds himself constantly in need of two things: snacks and hand sanitizer.

Turning back to the CNBC screw-up, he rolls his eyes. “That one I chalk up to incompetence. Others have been more deliberate in their bias.”

There was the time he gave a major policy speech that went completely uncovered. The time MSNBC referred to him as “John Yang.” The time he was congratulated by other campaigns for outshining his opponents at a cattle call, only to get zero mention in the national write-ups. The countless times he was omitted from fundraising charts on cable news despite having out-performed some of the candidates displayed.

And don’t get him started on the debates. Stats don’t lie: Yang has notched the least amount of speaking time in nearly every one of the televised events in which he’s participated.

“That’s the thing that really got to me,” Yang explains. “I think POLITICO was fair in giving me an even number of questions. But in a lot of them—those two MSNBC hosted—it felt like they were trying to marginalize me. I’m standing up there and I just can’t shake the feeling that they’re trying to ignore me. I would see the cameras panning toward me, because they’re supposed to ask me a question, and the moderator audibles and redirects it to someone else. It’s like, ‘What did I do to these people?’”

Evelyn has a theory. She has spent much of the morning buried in a book, Maid: Hard Work, Low Pay, and a Mother's Will to Survive. It’s about the working poor, she says, and how they have no power or political influence. “It’s the same thing,” she says. “Andrew’s plans are all designed to help the poor and the working poor, but we don’t talk about those plans, because those people aren’t a constituency for CNN or MSNBC.”

Her husband agrees. It’s easy to dismiss him—“the futuristic Asian man,” he jokes—because it’s easy to dismiss his trademark proposal: Universal Basic Income, a.k.a. Yang Bucks.

By giving every adult citizen $1,000 per month, Yang believes, the U.S. government could “eradicate poverty” and close the income-inequality gap that has come to define the Democratic Party’s modern mission. The problem is, such a gimmick-sounding plan is unprecedented in the sweep of American presidential campaigning, and thus goes ignored or poorly covered by a media apparatus that has little patience for policies that are alien and unconventional.

As frustrating as this has been for Yang, he can already see the upside. Just as Medicare for All was considered kooky less than a decade ago, only to become mainstream in 2020, he believes Universal Basic Income will soon be standard fare in platforms across the political spectrum. “The proof is in the numbers,” he says. “The last poll I saw showed 53 percent of Iowans support the idea. At my last count, five other candidates have expressed openness to it. It’s most popular among young people, who obviously aren’t going anywhere. And even on a lot of people on the right are conceptually open to it, because conservatives aren’t afraid of putting money in peoples’ hands; they’re afraid of big bureaucracies spending that money for them.”

As with any big idea, Yang understands its first great advance might be sacrificial in nature. “I know that even if I don’t win,” he says, “this idea is going to win.”

1:22 p.m.

“Some of them didn’t know what MATH stands for,” Evelyn Yang tells her husband, a grin tugging at her lips.

“There’s a lot of people who still don’t know,” Andrew responds. “Kinda funny.”

It is funny. The acronym plastered all over Yang’s shirts and hats and campaign signs – MATH – stands for “Make America Think Harder.” It’s a clever take on the president’s signature catchphrase, but in a twist of predictable irony, many people, including Yang’s own supporters, think the candidate is simply promoting academics, or perhaps even humble-bragging that his success in life owed to a talent for arithmetic.

Back on the campaign bus following a boisterous get-out-the-vote event in Iowa City, the Yangs dive into disposable boxes of Mediterranean food: chicken kabobs, falafel patties, grilled vegetables and fluffy pita bread. Humored as they are by the MATH stories, it’s easy to understand the confusion for some observers of his candidacy. Between Yang and his virtual gang, there are so many slogans and memes and catchphrases it’s hard to keep up. He’s got signs that say, “Not Left. Not Right. Forward.” His campaign offices are adorned in wall-sized $1,000 bills bearing his likeness. There’s that title of his book, which has become a rallying cry all its own. His favorite line—“the opposite of Donald Trump is an Asian man who likes math”—is the stuff of marketing genius.

And then there’s his most provocative motto: “Humanity First.” It’s another play off Trump—this one jabbing the president’s refrain of “America First”—and has caught on because of its layered implications. Yang preaches a brother’s-keeper mantra that defies ideological definition, encouraging community and availability and interpersonal learning. He also clearly believes that all politics, and all government by extension, is negligent if it is failing to address the crisis of poverty, both at home and abroad.

What makes the message resonate is Yang’s own humanity. He tells the story of his father growing up on a peanut farm with dirt floors in a way designed not to send electoral chills up your spine, but rather to remind everyone of America’s promise. His wife, Evelyn, came forward with a devastating story of being sexually assaulted not to engender support for her husband’s candidacy but to use the platform she’d been given to raise awareness and practice solidarity.

As we sit in the back of the bus, finishing lunch and talking about Yang’s recent endorsement from God (@TheTweetOfGod) on social media, the candidate closes his eyes and falls into a deep slumber. It’s not what anyone would expect from a candidate for president, riding along with a reporter on the biggest day of their political career, but it suits Yang just fine. He’s barely slept in the last month, crawling across Iowa mile by mile, shaking hands and snapping selfies and wishing he were with his kids. A little nap is long overdue. He’s human, after all.

Head against the interior wall of the bus, right leg crossed over his left, the candidate’s sleep is interrupted only by a string of raspy coughs, the remnant of a cold he’s been fighting for weeks.

3:11 p.m.

“Aw, man,” Yang mutters, eyes fixed on his iPhone.

“What?” Graumann asks.

“Some guy says he voted for us at a satellite caucus, but we weren’t viable.”

After two years spent on the road, sleeping in hotel beds and Facetiming with his young kids, Yang is beginning to feel the weight of caucus day bearing down on him. We’ve just departed another pep-rally with volunteers, this one in Davenport, and Yang is glued to his device, scrolling through Twitter for mentions of his campaign from analysts and caucus-goers. He says he’s still not feeling any nerves, but the length of the day is agonizing. Too much time to wait. Too much time to wonder. Too much time to reflect.

“It hit me the other day,” Yang says, describing when he got teary-eyed on stage in Dubuque. “All the conversations in Iowa, all the time I’ve put in here, all the time my family has spent here, I realized that Monday is the last day I’ll spend here.”

In retrospect, it’s a small miracle he even made it to Monday.

“Some of the early days when nobody was responding to me, when we wouldn’t get a single donation from someone that I didn’t personally know, that was hard,” he recalls. “But I’m not someone to set out on this road, taking even a little bit of money from friends, and then stop what I started. There was never a thought of quitting.”

Yang says this in the past tense. But now, hours from the first votes being tallied and delegates being assigned, quitting—or, more delicately, bowing out gracefully—is a thought that cannot be ignored. Nobody has been discussing it out loud. There is no desire to speak a grim fate into existence. But the truth is, everyone knows Yang is not going to win the presidency in 2020. Not with five candidates polling in front of him. Not with Iowa’s strange set of rules, which mandate a 15 percent threshold for “viability,” making it harder to pull off an upset at the ballot box. And not even with the contest coming up in independent-minded New Hampshire, which Yang often touts as a better fit for his unorthodox candidacy.

But none of this means he’s ready to quit. After escaping to write his caucus-night speech, Yang returns to the couch with a satisfied mien. Did he just construct a rhetorical masterpiece?

“Nah,” he grins. “It’s actually pretty lame. I wrote it to cover all scenarios.”

Yang turns to his staff. “Should I write one to give if I…”

“If you shock the world?” Graumann asks.

“Yeah.”

“You won’t need a speech if you shock the world,” his campaign manager says. “I want you to go up there and give us Yang Unchained.”

Graumann pauses. “Just no swearing. This is Iowa.”

5:01 p.m.

Yang is running on empty.

It’s his fourth stop of the day, in Oscaloosa, and the candidate’s cough has gotten worse. Crowding into a small campaign office with some 50 volunteers, Yang launches into a version of the motivational speech he’s been giving all day. It’s slower, somewhat less edgy, if every bit as earnest.

“People learn from, and are inspired by, other people,” he says. “People are not inspired by television commercials. If they were, Mike Bloomberg would be doing a lot better than he is.”

After some chuckling, Yang continues, “People are inspired when you knock on the door, when you pick up the phone, when you have a face-to-face conversation. Because that’s the way we’re built as human beings. We see another human being that wants to share something important with us, and we can’t help but listen.”

Yang can’t help but listen a few minutes later when he Thomas Wu, a 27-year-old volunteer, explains how he wound up in his wheelchair. The 27-year-old Wu lives in Louisiana but relocated to Iowa a month ago to help Yang’s efforts. While completing a marathon canvassing session just the day before, Wu slipped and fell on ice, shattering his kneecap.

Upon hearing this, the candidate looks equal parts dismayed and impressed. “That is a battlefield injury,” Yang says, slapping the youngster’s back.

When Wu declares that he’ll still be fulfilling his duties as a precinct captain tonight, Yang looks as though he’s just heard a symphony.

Whether it’s the emotion or the sickness or the fatigue—most likely a combination—Yang needs another break. Once aboard the bus, he collapses onto the couch. “Baby needs a nap,” he says to nobody in particular, pulling a blanket up to his chin and coughing himself to sleep.

6:20 p.m.

Yang is awake but barely functional, his eyes open but trained on nothing in particular. After spending much of the day on his iPhone, monitoring social media for signs of what’s to come tonight, he now appears immobilized. It’s only when Graumann announces a FiveThirtyEight story that Yang snaps to attention: The nixed Des Moines Register poll from Saturday night, Graumann announces, showed Biden at just 14 percent.

“Wait, what?” Yang asks, sounding part-shocked and part-groggy.

Graumann and a few other staffers explain the reporting and its implications for Biden. Their candidate listens silently, then stands up, stretches, and heads to the bathroom. Several minutes later, having emerged and grabbed a fresh bag of fruit snacks, Yang sits back down and sighs.

“It would make me really sad if Joe has a rough night,” he says.

Why?

Yang shrugs. “I like Joe.”

6:41 p.m.

The bus is rumbling into West Des Moines, where Yang will partake in the charming tradition of speaking to Iowans at an actual caucus site, making the case for his candidacy just as hundreds of surrogates are doing the same at locations around the state. But the preliminary reports Yang is getting from inside the high school gymnasium is discouraging: There are few uncommitted Iowans by his team’s count, and his presence looks significantly smaller than those of rival campaigns.

Yang digests the information. Then he admits that his mind has begun to wander, contemplating all that might or might not unfold in the coming hours. “I’ve thought about the worst-case scenario and what it would mean; I think I’m prepared for that,” he says. “And I’ve thought about the best-case scenario and what it would mean. I think I’m prepared for that, too.”

Yang asks his team if there are additional updates. Told that no, not yet, he tells Graumann: “Let’s hear the song.”

Moments later, the bus is ringing with “Winds of Change” by the Scorpions. Yang closes his eyes and leans back, head nodding along to the rhythm.

The world is closing in
Did you ever think
That we could be so close, like brothers
The future's in the air
I can feel it everywhere
Blowing with the wind of change

Graumann walks past Yang and squeezes his candidate on the shoulder.

“Proud of you, man.”

6:53 p.m.

The gym is packed with caucus-goers, but Yang is stuck on the bus. He’s not allowed inside until the doors are locked, at seven o’clock. These will be the longest seven minutes of his day.

Tossing a meatball in his direction, I ask Yang what he’ll tell his kids about running for president in America circa 2020. He turns deadly serious. “You seem to be suggesting that things will be better by the time they’re older.”

Won’t they?

“I’m not optimistic at all,” he shakes his head.

“The question is,” Yang continues, “How will this society fare in an environment of unprecedented change, with a polarized government that is hopelessly behind the curve and unable to adapt in ways necessary to help them?”

Yang has never been viewed as an ideologue, certainly not in the vein of Bernie Sanders or Elizabeth Warren. But he’s gotten this far by hammering home a message that is just as unwavering as either of theirs: that software and automation are eliminating American jobs at a devastating rate, and that Washington lacks the competence and the leadership to respond.

It occurs to me, as he paints this grim picture of the future, that Yang is a true believer if ever there was one. He isn’t peddling a far-flung theory for the sake of fame or Twitter followers; he feels convinced of every word he’s saying, certain that he’s a lone voice of sanity in a world gone mad. The thing about people like this—the true believers—is that they don’t go away. It’s easy to envision someone more prominent building on Yang’s success in elections yet to come. But what about Yang himself? Is this campaign the end, or only just the beginning?

“I certainly wouldn’t rule it out,” Yang says of another run. “We’ve got a list of millions of people. We’ve got hundreds of thousands of donors. … If I ran again, the probability of my success would be that much higher. So, why wouldn’t I?”

“I certainly wouldn’t rule it out,” he says of another run. “We’ve got a list of millions of people. We’ve got hundreds of thousands of donors. Plus, the national press would have to have us seriously next time. And the truth is, I like Iowa, I like New Hampshire. I like Americans. The prospect of doing this again is something I’m very comfortable with. I’d prefer to win now and start solving problems. The reason I ran was because I want to eradicate poverty. If I ran again, the probability of my success would be that much higher. So, why wouldn’t I?”

As Graumann cuts him off, advising on a strategic approach to conversations with caucus-goers inside the gymnasium, Yang looks back at me.

“I’m only 45, you know.”

7:39 p.m.

For the first time all day, Yang appears downcast.

He had wrung every last ounce of energy from himself inside the gym—slapping hands, leading chants, running up the bleacher steps like Rocky Balboa. He had swaggered his way to the microphone, saluting the crowd with one arm raised, and given a solid speech, emphasizing the need to unite the party and the country around a forward-thinking agenda. He received a nice ovation, including from lots of Iowans wearing shirts and stickers with his opponents’ names.

Outside, hiking briskly with his small entourage through a barely-lit parking lot, Yang sounds like a man whacked over the head with reality.

“I wish we would have picked a location with more supporters. It was a liiiiiitle lonely in there,” he says. “I hope we’ll be a lot of peoples’ second choices. But even then, how many people showed up here undecided about that? Probably a fraction of that crowd. I don’t know.”

Inside the bus, Yang’s aides glue their eyes to CNN. Entrance poll numbers are rolling in, but still no results. The staffers banter about various statistics and what they might foretell, but the candidate barely seems to be paying attention. He’s looking toward the television, but not directly at it.

After a minute, Graumann shows Yang a tweet that should cheer him up: He’d finished ahead of Biden in one Des Moines precinct. “That’s good,” the candidate replied, gazing back off.

Getting back onto his iPhone after a few minutes of peace, Yang looks up. “That’s not good,” he tells the crew. “I only got seven and a half percent in Grinnell. That means we’re not viable.”

Graumann and Chapman warn their boss not to read too much into any one result, any one report from any one precinct. But it’s too late. Yang is submerged into the dark world of Election Night Twitter, and soon so are they. The bus rolls along silently toward the Iowa Events Center in downtown Des Moines, the site of Yang’s caucus celebration party. Many minutes go by before someone finally chirps up from the front of the bus: “Can you turn the volume on?”

The smartphone addicts in the back oblige, and we all listen to Wolf Blitzer trying to make sense of the situation on the ground in Iowa. Precincts across the state are well into their voting rituals, but thus far no official results are being reported. It’s confusing to everyone, especially the novice politician and first-time presidential contender, who furrows his eyebrows and turns back to his iPhone.

8:02 p.m.

At last, something compelling on the television: “Andrew Yang is on the cusp of viability,” CNN’s Jeff Zeleny reports from a Des Moines caucus site.

The candidate is intrigued, but it’s time to go. The bus is parked in the staging area behind the convention center and his staff have loaded up their computers and personal affects, preparing for a long night inside. The candidate takes his time ambling down the center aisle toward the front of the bus, giving fist-bumps to each member of his team. He walks down the stairs and inhales the icy February air, breathing heavily as he heads into the bowels of the building.

Directed to a steel-doored freight elevator, Yang steps inside and climbs two stories. His staff leads him to a medium-sized staging room, brightly lit and empty but for a table full of platters: fruits, vegetables, crackers, cheese. “Mmm,” he says.

Next door is the war room, where Yang’s team is setting up a hub of laptops and television monitors. He’ll get there eventually. For now, he needs time alone, time to rest and think. Before long—an hour, maybe 90 minutes—he’ll need to come into the main ballroom and greet his supporters with a caucus night speech. Whether it’s declaring victory or conceding defeat, Yang doesn’t know. And he doesn’t seem terribly concerned. Just tired.

“I feel comfortable with a whole range of outcomes,” he says, sidling up to the food trays, seeming concerned more with the selection of cheeses than with the returns being processed next door.

I can only laugh. Nothing more human, after ten hours on the campaign trail, than being hungry. He laughs, too.

“I remain hopeful that my relative normalcy is our key competitive advantage,” Yang says.

10:47 p.m.

Andrew and Evelyn Yang dance their way onto the stage, “Return of the Mack” blaring through the ballroom, a few hundred supporters cheering and clapping and dancing along with them.

It has been a most baffling night—for Yang, for his team, for everyone else here and across Iowa. The state’s Democratic Party has experienced a staggering failure of its results-reporting system, which means none of the campaigns have any concrete idea of how they performed statewide.

“I’ve gotta say, I’m a numbers guy. We’re still waiting on numbers from tonight. We’re all looking around, like, ‘What’s the math? What’s the math?’” Yang joked with his audience.

No math means no winners, no losers, no narratives. Just spinning—lots and lots of spinning, each candidate given carte blanche to define the night before the media could do it for them.

Yang is ideally suited to the task. Although it’s not clear yet, there are indications that his campaign underperformed expectations; and sure enough, within a few days, he will learn from a partial release of results that he won just 1 percent of raw votes statewide, the very definition of the “bad sixth” place he feared on Monday morning.

Not that it matters right now. The #YangGang came to celebrate, and their leader isn’t about to let them down. Describing how a field of 20 candidates has withered to seven who will be on the debate stage in New Hampshire on Friday (not counting his pal, Mike Bloomberg, of course), Yang declares that his campaign will move onward to New Hampshire and beyond.

Maybe it’s the worst-case scenario. Then again, maybe it’s the best-case scenario. Andrew Yang was never going to win the presidency in 2020. But he was never going to go quietly, either.

“The math that I care most about is the fact that this movement has become something that has already shocked the political world,” he says. “And it’s going to keep on going from here.”