Behind her she thought she heard the word “America” spoken with awe. She took in a deep breath. Her stomach and her lungs ached, but she had to convince them she was a celebrity not to be harmed. With Lulu still crying, but not fighting, Nola began to sing along with the radio. Singing for her life.

“We are tall, we are short, we’re black or we’re white,

We are blessed or are cursed by fate or birthright—”

How pathetic the effort was, how pitiable she must look with tear streaks on her dusty cheeks. At the sound of Nola's voice, Lulu was momentarily shocked into silence. The men laughed in quick gulps of air that sounded like reverse flatulence. The officer slapped his knees and guffawed in a series of hee-haws. More soldiers entered. Their body odor, mixed with the stench of gun oil and cow manure, stuffed the room like cotton. The ceiling fan spun and whined on rusted hinges. Nola's head felt light; the air was too thick for her to sing. But it was now or never. Lulu resumed her crying, but Nola grabbed a breath in a way that would have made Jean-Claude twitch, expanded her diaphragm, and put more force into her song, as she followed the scratchy soundtrack.

In her mind’s eye, these were not snickering Taiwanese. They were a part of a crowd, up on their feet, hands swaying in the air, a mass of underwater weeds moving with the current.

“Because the world over peace is the color of dove,

And we all share the feeling of love.”

The men stopped their sniggering. Someone brought in a magazine printed on cheap pulp paper and opened it to a spread showing her face and the Bashful Fire character. The article was four pages long and used poorly reproduced photos from In Style magazine.

As the men consulted the picture, a policeman pulled a chair toward Nola and she collapsed onto it before ending the second refrain. Lulu's basket was carried in, and someone handed Nola a cup of tea. She sipped it while rocking the basket. Where was that damned pacifier?

The officer asked her to autograph the magazine pages. Then he made a phone call.

It was late at night, and Nola fought sleep. Earlier, two policemen had served her some spicy, watery vegetable soup and a bowl of rice, which she forced herself to eat. They had also given her a tin basin with warm water to wash herself. Local people came in and gazed at her in her cell. They pointed, giggled and clucked. One boy probed her with a long bamboo stick. Hours after nightfall, their curiosity finally satisfied, they left. She lay on her cot, her cheek resting against the silky crown of Lulu's head. In the distance, the ocean was stormy, angry, like a pack of wild dogs. A lightning flash strobed through the small, shutterless window, leaving the air smelling of ozone.