Ko was no longer counted among the high-risk prisoners, so he was not chained to a chair for the visit but rather allowed into a side yard, enclosed with razor wire, with other prisoners and their families. Mothers and wives wept. Fathers and sons clenched their jaws and tried not to glare at the armed guards as the thin, ragged prisoners filed in, some supported by other inmates. Half a dozen prisoners, the oldest, never had visitors but were allowed to sit at the perimeter and contentedly watch the brief, tearful reunions. The families of hard labor prisoners never knew whether a loved one would survive to the next visit. More than once Shan had seen family members collapse, sobbing, as they were greeted not by the prisoner they had come to see but by a certificate attesting to his death.

Shan hung back as Ko appeared, letting Yara run forward and wrap her arms around him. They held each other tightly, without a word, until a couple of prisoners nearby noticed and laughed. When Ko finally released the Tibetan woman, there was a new, deep strength behind his eyes. Yara recalled the bags Shan had carried from Tserung’s car. Prisoners were not permitted to take food back into their barracks but could eat in the yard, and she unpacked a bag of Marpa’s momo dumplings. Then, in a custom she had established the year before, she walked with a second bag to the sergeant of the guards and placed it at his feet, with a murmured blessing. The sergeant responded with a stern, tight nod.

Shan gave his son and Yara time to speak alone by going to the circle of old men. He knew most of the aged lamas and pushed down his emotion as he struggled to keep their conversation cheerful, trying to ignore how frail some had become. He had his own bag of momos which he distributed among them, and the rail-thin prisoners accepted them with an eager gratitude that made him feel shamed for being so well-fed himself.

There were thirty minutes left in the visitation period when he returned to Ko. Yara stood at his side, holding his calloused hand, as Shan asked about the prisoners from Larung Gar.

“Good men, every one of them,” his son reported. “They’re not in my barracks but sometimes I work with them. They hold teachings in the night. Some from other barracks sneak out after curfew to go listen.”

“You mustn’t!” Yara interrupted. Being caught outside one’s barracks after curfew brought at least a month’s solitary confinement.