Shan wandered back toward the cells, lost in thought, then saw the disheveled cot in the cell where he had spent the night. As he stripped away the bedding the sweater Meng had been wearing fell out. He lifted it and sat on the bed, staring at the sweater. She had pried open a part of his heart that he had thought forever closed. He was more confused than ever about her. He had felt an instant of revulsion when she had appeared in her Public Security uniform, but he knew she had saved Lokesh’s life. In the middle of the night she had clung to Shan as if she had glimpsed something that terrified her, then had paraded onto the square like one more arrogant knob.

He stared out at the square, empty except for half a dozen Tibetans praying at the chorten, thinking of the disaster that had been narrowly avoided and the disasters likely to come. Maybe Meng was still at the farmhouse, he realized, and grabbed his keys.

Her car was gone when he reached the farm, but he tossed his uniform tunic onto the seat and walked up the ragged lane. Lokesh was in the back room again, chanting the death rite. Lhamo was standing in the doorway, holding a bowl of barley porridge.

“He won’t eat,” the old woman groused.

Shan took the bowl from her and stepped inside. He sat beside Lokesh, the bowl between them, and joined in the rite. When Lokesh paused after a few minutes to sip from the crock of water in front of him Shan lifted the bowl. “You’ll like Lhamo’s porridge. She adds heather honey to it.”

Lokesh hesitated, then Shan pushed the bowl into his hands. Shan began speaking of Jampa, in the tone of a eulogy, and after a moment Lokesh nodded and began eating. Shan described how brave Jampa had been in coming to the colonel with a message from the jail. “Jampa brought you to Lhadrung,” Shan said. He motioned to the clothing on the low table, arranged in the shape of the dead man. “He would be devastated if you were lost, too. It was a close call this morning.”

Lokesh swallowed another spoonful before replying. “I am ready, Shan. Do not worry about me.”

“Ready?”

“If the choice is to die for being a failed Chinese citizen or as a true Tibetan, there is no choice at all.”

The words sent a chill down Shan’s spine. “Please, old friend. You know you can’t go back to your mountain home. I can get you to a cave in the nearby mountains. I promise to visit you two or three times a week.”