Lieutenant Huan sat at Shan’s desk, his boots on the paperwork. “Constable!” he greeted Shan. “At last I get to see you in your lair!” Huan gave an exaggerated wince. “Truly a dismal nest for such an overreaching bird, though I see now why you grope for greater heights.” He paused, studying with obvious disapproval the faded posters on the walls, the cracked tea mugs and peeling paint on the ceiling, then continued in his sneering tone. “Wasn’t there a fable about a crow who flew too close to the sun and burst into flame?”

Shan gestured Choden toward the door. “Time for a patrol, Deputy.” Choden backed away, groping for the doorknob behind his back, then quickly turned and darted out onto the street.

Huan laughed as he watched Choden nervously pass the knobs who stood in front of the station and run across to the square, where some of the released men sat on benches, being comforted by family members. Two of the knob cars were gone. The remaining knobs had gathered in front of the station, obviously awaiting orders.

“What a pathetic place this Buzhou is,” Huan said.

“Yangkar. The county government allows us to call it by the old name.”

Huan’s eyes widened. “Sounds reactionary,” he said in a mocking tone.

“What do you want, Lieutenant?”

“Just to show you something, comrade. My new photo collection.” Huan began laying out grainy photographs taken with one of the instant cameras all knob squads carried for recording arrests. The images were all of individual Tibetans, men and women of various ages in the clothing of farmers and herders. “Seventeen in my gallery so far. Maybe I’ll make a poster. ‘The Faces of Antisocialism.’” He fixed Shan with a pointed expression, then swirled his hand in the air, mimicking the act of signature, then made a backward motion like swatting a fly. A cold lump grew in Shan’s chest as he realized what Huan meant.

The knob officer lifted a photo of a middle-aged Tibetan in a sheepskin vest. “This fool said, ‘What about my wife?’ when we snatched him. I said we will arrest her too. Then he said, ‘There’ll be no one to care for my mule.’ ‘No problem,’ I said and shot the mule in the head,” Huan reported with an oily laugh. “A good officer addresses the little details like that. Did you a favor. Can’t have an unclaimed mule wandering through your township.”

Shan, suddenly feeling unsteady, lowered himself into the chair in front of the desk. “You detained them all.”

“I launched them all into a more productive life. Next year they can graduate and join the proletariat. Meanwhile they have free meals for a year.”

“Where?”

“Camp New Awakening.”

“Where from?”

“We drove five miles along Ice Ball Alley and picked up anyone we saw.”

“Why?”