The two peasants, who looked like father and son, silently opened the door of an ancient pickup truck. Even in the dark she could see the dented, rusty sides and the caved-in ceiling of the cab. After she climbed in, the younger man settled in the truck bed among some bulbous vegetables Nola couldn’t name. His face was glued to the cab’s back window, examining her with open curiosity. There was something wild in his eyes, the kind of intensity she had seen in some male fans.

“First thing, we leave Shanghai,” Ming-Ji said.

Nola, squeezed between her and the old man, surveyed the deserted alley. “Let’s go.”

The driver covered his mouth with his hand and giggled, that odd gesture of embarrassment. He adjusted his cap, grasped the gearshift, and, against screeching protests, sent the truck jerking forward.

A yelp escaped Nola's throat as she was thrown out of her seat, barely protecting Lulu's head from banging against the dashboard. To stop her fall, she jammed her hand against the windshield. Pain shot up her wrist. Lulu slept on as Nola pressed herself back onto the bench and searched for a seat belt, but found none. On her right, Ming-Ji fiddled with her glasses, which had slid down her nose, and wiped her brow with a cotton handkerchief. Her stare was fixed straight ahead.

The truck rattled and squeaked its way out of the city. A Mao pendant hanging from the rearview mirror bounced wildly. Two more days—or two more days and two nights, if this night didn’t count.

It seemed like an hour before Ming-Ji spoke. “They made Daniel leave. The Chinese government never like him; he’s a pest. Not kind of person they want, you know. They like journalists and academics who write about good Chinese government.”

Nola turned to check the expanding pink line that marked the end of the inky night behind them. They were heading west.

Ming-Ji went on, “Two officials glued to him. Their method, yes? Can be much worse. They can say he’s Chinese—because of ancestors, you know—and put him in jail for life. Better they throw him out.” She touched Nola's hand. “He told me to say Chinese proverb: ‘One’s acquaintances may fill the empire, but one’s real friends can be but few.’ ”

“How true.” Nola reflected on the words. “I can’t get over how he came on stage to translate the song. Because of me, he’ll never be welcomed here again.”

“He don’t do it for you. He do it for himself. We all do what we do for ourselves. For what make us happy. I help babies not for babies, but because it make me happy to help babies.”

Nola smiled. “What an interesting take.”