Cars and rickshaws advanced through busy streets, hampered by traffic at every intersection. Restaurants and shops welcomed expensively dressed customers both Chinese and foreign, banks carried on their business behind polished brass doors. But when Lian looked more closely, some buildings were pocked with holes from stray bullets and sandbags were still stacked beside walls.

Then there were the sights Dr. Mao had warned her about. Shacks built in alleyways using whatever materials could be found: packing crates, tar paper, bamboo taken from fences and scaffolding, even branches torn from trees in public parks. Destitute families huddled in doorways and niches. Any vacant ground, including plots of grass and flower beds, was occupied. Some of the younger refugees were still energetic and enterprising, selling and bartering what little they had. Others had subsided into resignation, waiting for heaven’s will to do its worst.

From time to time, Lian paused to consult Sparrow’s hand-drawn map. Just to be sure, she asked two young women whether she was on the right street. They were beautiful and stylish, wearing short wool coats over flowered qipao dresses, leather pumps adorned with bows.

“Yes, this is Hankow Street,” one said. “Honan Road is just another ten minutes via the Number Eleven Bus.”

“Is it really necessary to take a bus?” Lian said, dismayed. She didn’t know how to use the Shanghai bus system. It was one more obstacle to face.

The young women burst into laughter. “It’s a local expression that means to go on foot,” the other explained, not unkindly. She pointed two fingers down and wiggled them to mime a walking motion. They walked away arm in arm, still giggling. They stopped to speak with a man, their smiles flirtatious. It occurred to Lian they might’ve been prostitutes.

She walked slowly, taking note of landmarks in case she had to retrace her steps, but Sparrow’s map proved accurate. From the corner of Hankow Street and Honan Road, she looked across the street to the offices of Xinwen Bao, the newspaper where Shao’s father worked. The newspaper that Shao’s family owned, she corrected herself.

She opened the door of Xinwen Bao. Rows of desks filled the space behind the reception counter, some empty, others crowded with men reading out loud and talking over each other. A haze of cigarette smoke drifted near the ceiling.

“I’m here to see Liu Sanmu,” she said to the clerk. “I have a message from his son.”

“Which son?” he said. He looked her up and down. “He has so many.”

“It’s from his youngest son, Liu Shaoming,” she said and pulled the letter out of her pocket. She pointed at the seal stamped on the envelope and the clerk put his pen down.

“Wait here,” he said and vanished up the staircase. A few moments later he came down the steps and beckoned her to follow.