She nodded. “I suppose.”

Shan folded the paper. “May I keep this?”

“Yes, yes, please do,” Amah Jiejie said. “But just don’t…” her voice trailed off

“Don’t what?”

“Please don’t tell the colonel, Shan. He would worry.”

Shan passed a desperate night at a pilgrims’ rest near the road to the prison camp, keeping nervous watch as Lokesh, Jampa’s belongings arranged before him on a rock, continued reciting the death rites, which would take days to complete. He relented only for quick swallows from Shan’s water bottle and bites of the rice cakes Shan had in his pack, then later, long after midnight, for quick responses to Shan’s questions about his trip to Lhadrung. Lokesh had hitched a ride on a truck with a Tibetan driver after riding a horse to the nearest road. The joyful old man, who was like a close uncle to Shan, was showing conspicuous signs of his age. His firm, steady stride which had taken them over hundreds of miles of pilgrims’ trails, had slowed and sometimes was only a tenuous shuffle. His bright eyes were watery, and at times Shan saw a tremor in one hand.

They were outside the gate when the boxy old sedan, dented and badly in need of new paint, pulled up at the 404th People’s Construction Brigade. They had not been the first in line despite arriving before dawn, and Shan recalled from his years as an inmate that relatives often arrived the day before for the infrequent family visitation days, spending the night in sleeping bags or wrapped in blankets, sometimes after traveling for days.

“I’m sorry, Tserung,” he said as the mechanic wearily climbed from behind the wheel. Shan had called to ask him to bring Yara for the long-awaited visit when he had realized he would never make it to Yangkar and back in time. “But at least you have a companion for the ride home. Find a safe place for him until I get back,” Shan said and opened the back door of his car.

“Lokesh!” Yara exclaimed. Her cry awakened the old man, who groggily returned her embrace and let himself be pulled to Tserung’s car.