A warm meadow-scented breeze was wafting over the town as Shan guided Meng down the dusk-lit street to see the carpet factory, where the night crew was hanging brilliantly colored bundles of yarn, still damp from dye, on scaffolds. He introduced Meng as a friend to the old women who worked the looms, and one laughed and pounded Shan on the back with a mischievous wink. He realized he was enjoying the rare time away from his troubles and, as the sky turned deep shades of purple, asked if Meng would go for a ride. Without really knowing why he found himself parking at the end of the rutted track to the old farm compound. As they approached the buildings he cursed himself for thinking he could take a Public Security officer into a nest of ferals but as they reached the gate Meng gave a cry of delight and ran forward. Lokesh had found an old horn and was standing by a flaming brazier in the center of the yard, playing an old herder’s song.

As he passed through the gate, Shan was struck by how much work had been done. The weeds had all been plucked and the courtyard swept, revealing a surprisingly intact cobblestone surface. The front wall of the stable had a fresh coat of maroon paint, and two of its support posts had been replaced.

Yara was there, washing dinner dishes in a basin, and warmly introduced her grandparents. Her grandfather Trinle offered Meng some dried apricots. Her grandmother Lhamo offered a cigar, which Meng politely declined.

“You have a wonderful home,” Meng said to them, causing them to glance anxiously at Shan.

“We’re just settling in,” Yara interjected. “With Shan’s help, it may become a home.”

Shan hesitated over her words, for he had thought of the compound as just one more temporary refuge for the ferals. Then Yara pushed him away, toward Trinle, who led them inside to see the new altar, new kitchen alcove, and fresh pallets in the sleeping quarters, well-scented with fresh juniper.

When they returned to the courtyard, Yara had produced benches and they sat around the brazier drinking tea as night crept over the hills. Meng asked if she might borrow the horn, which reminded her of the recorder she had once played in a student band, and to Shan’s surprise she began an excellent rendition of “Beautiful Dreamer.” Stephen Foster was a favorite not only of Chinese schoolteachers but also of public-address systems in buses and trains.

Shan felt an unfamiliar tranquility, letting himself be immersed in the domestic warmth, and for a moment found himself thinking of the impossible, but beautiful, dream of Yara and Ko raising a family in such a home.