He was shivering. Someone pulled up the blanket he had kicked off and warmth enfolded him again. He fell asleep from sheer exhaustion, but his dreams were fitful.

Daylight entered through the shutters of a narrow window. The room was small, with clay jars stacked against its walls. He lay on a pile of straw heaped on a low brick platform. The air smelled sour, musty. He pushed himself up and looked around. A charcoal brazier smoldered in a niche, its smoke rising through a hole in the roof, its glow lighting the corner. Slowly, he grew aware of the noise of crockery, the smell of cooking grains, voices outside. Lian and another woman, chatting amiably. He sat up slowly just as Sparrow entered, sunlight filling the doorway behind her.

“Where are we?” Shao said. His throat felt parched but otherwise, he felt nearly back to normal.

“On the outskirts of Foochow,” Sparrow said. “A woman and her daughter let us stay. We’re in their storeroom. Miss Hu slept in the kitchen. Here, drink this. Real medicine.”

More of the bitter liquid. Shao sighed and swallowed obediently. “Is it safe to go into Foochow?” he asked, remembering.

“Foochow seems safe enough now.” Lian came into the storeroom. “The army recruiters have moved on. I found the doctor, Daming’s friend. He gave us those drugs and travel documents. There’s a truck we can get on tonight. Are you well enough to walk?”

Sparrow put down a bowl of hot boiled millet. Suddenly, even this peasant food smelled tempting and he began spooning it down.

“I’m glad you’re better,” Lian said, putting her hand on his for a moment.

But all he felt was shame. Shame that she had seen him in a disgusting state.

THE TRUCK WAS parked at a wharf on the Fuhe River, near the eastern side of Foochow’s town walls. The soldier driving the truck waved them to get on, not even bothering to look at their documents. They huddled together under the canvas awning, perched uncomfortably on wooden crates. The road was rutted as a washboard and the truck seemed to drive over every bump. Still queasy from fever, Shao hung his head over the tailgate several times to retch.

They traveled through a valley, timbered hills rising up on all sides. They reached a roadside inn at nightfall. If not for the rough wooden tables and stools set up in the yard, it would’ve looked like a rather run-down farmhouse. But someone had cared enough to plant ornamental shrubs in the yard. Dogwood and rhododendron waiting for spring, shoots of forsythia struggling to show green.

The innkeeper, elderly and unkempt, came out to greet the driver. He glared at the three passengers.

“Not enough food for everyone,” he said and hawked a gob of mucus onto the dirt. He looked accusingly at the driver. “Usually it’s just one of you.”