They entered a bare loft that seemed to stretch the entire length of the warehouse. An occasional exposed lightbulb hung from the ceiling. Behind a massive desk sat a uniformed Chinese, his eyes bulging between tired lids, his square shoulders diminished by the huge picture of Mao that hung on the wall. Upon their entry, the man yawned, rubbed the sparse stubble on his flat cheeks, and put on his hard-edged hat that bore an emblem above the visor.

Ming-Ji stood in front of his desk and clasped her hands in supplication. She spoke in low tones, her voice pleading. He said something in a belligerent tone, then, with slow, deliberate movements, opened the center desk drawer and ceremoniously brought out a red inkpad and a chop stamp. With the same lumbering deliberation, he took out a few forms from another drawer and handed them to Ming-Ji.

At a chest-high table, Ming-Ji wove quick, tiny strokes into Chinese characters. Once in a while she asked Nola a question—her date of birth, address, health status, names of people in her neighborhood who would vouch for her sincerity and good character. She instructed Nola to sign each page.

All the while the man’s bulging eyes were trained on Nola like a frog appraising a fly. His hand stroked his chin as though he were reconsidering the transaction. He rose and examined the sleeping baby in the basket and said something to Ming-Ji in his quarrelsome tone. Nola experienced a moment of panic. Whatever this official was supposed to authorize, he wasn’t satisfied—or fooled enough—to do it.

Ming-Ji lowered her head, mumbling something. Again he studied her, Nola and Lulu. Ming-Ji spoke modestly, and, apparently pacified, he pivoted and paced the length of the loft while she completed her paperwork.

She placed the documents on his desk and stood still, her head bowed, until he completed another round, returned to his seat, and rustled through the papers. He weighed each on his palm as though Ming-Ji’s writing had added to their weight. Finally, again pondering the importance of the act, he lifted his chop, ground it into the inkpad once, twice, and, puffing his chest, landed the chop with a thud on the top document. He repeated the slow process with each page.

He took an abacus out of another drawer. His fingers flew over the beads. He announced something, then at Ming-Ji’s gesture, Nola handed him five hundred dollars.

Each holding a handle of Lulu's basket, Nola and Ming-Ji rushed out.

“What was that about?” Nola asked when they were outside.

“You can’t get papers for Lulu in Beijing or Shanghai, but China has many other cities, yes? This place too far for Beijing to supervise, so local officials decide everything. Especially if get money.” After a pause, Ming-Ji added, “People adopt in many places.”

Nola's heart leaped with joy. “You mean I’ve adopted Lulu legally?”