“Not exactly,” the younger official replied. “Better to indicate that they presented a challenge which we were able to overcome through painstaking and expert evaluation to minimize their importance. We call it mitigation. We will say we mitigated the problem to advance the interests of the motherland.”

Metok’s apartment was in one of the new blocks of apartment buildings on the south side of the city. Shan knocked for a long time and was about to give up when a weary woman in her mid-thirties opened the door, took in his uniform, and fixed him with an accusatory stare.

“I am from Lhadrung,” Shan said. Metok’s wife wore her hair in a tight bun at the back of her head. She wore a dirty sweatshirt, and her eyes appeared puffy from crying.

“I think,” the woman replied in a surprisingly sharp voice, “that we are finished with Lhadrung.”

Shan cursed himself for not rehearsing a better opening.

“Could there be anything left for you to do to us?” the woman snapped. “Evict us today instead of in a month? Maybe you’re here to reclaim his work clothes—I might be able to find some mud-caked shoes you can take back as trophies.”

“My name is Shan. I am just a constable. I want to try to set things right.”

Metok’s wife gave a bitter laugh. “A bit late for that, isn’t it, Constable Shan? Perhaps you came to collect the cost of the bullet that killed my husband? I hear Public Security does that sometimes.”

“I am not Public Security. They would be furious if they knew I was here.” Shan cast a nervous glance down the hall, where an elderly woman carrying a bag of cabbages had paused to gawk at him. “Please, may I come in?”

“You people always do what you want,” she said as she stepped aside for him to enter. “No point in saying no.” She turned her back on Shan and called toward the kitchen. “Dolma,” she said to the teenaged girl who emerged. “Go to your room,” she instructed, then sat in one of the two worn armchairs in the modest sitting room.

Shan admired the shelves of books that lined two of the walls of Metok’s apartment. It was a well-read household. Instead of the usual framed quotes of Mao that were often hung in rooms that visitors might frequent, there were two quotes from Buddhist scripture. Another wall held several photographs of Metok standing by bridges, tunnels, and a highway—no doubt souvenirs from past projects for the civil engineer. The shelves on the remaining wall were stripped empty, with cardboard cartons stacked below.

Metok’s wife stared at the carpet as he sat. Her voice cracked as she spoke. “You killed him for no reason,” she said, pressing a hand to her mouth to stifle a sob.