“No, she doesn’t need protection, but she makes me feel worthwhile.” He leaned against the corridor wall. “As though I’m someone who can make a difference.”

“Don’t I make you feel worthwhile, Young Master?” Sparrow asked. He couldn’t tell whether she was teasing.

“You take care of me, Sparrow. You’re so competent it makes me feel useless,” he said. “Everyone just thinks of me as the youngest son. They see my family’s money and think I won’t ever amount to much.”

“You’ve done well at Minghua,” Sparrow said. “Good grades, a tutorial leader.”

“But now I’m back in Shanghai, doing what my father wants,” he said. “He’s enrolled me at Jiao Tong University. I’m not like my brothers. They’ve always been decisive. All I’ve ever done is follow along. I have no initiative of my own.”

“You thought of getting your father to help Meirong,” Sparrow said. “You helped Lian escape to Shanghai.”

“I got sick,” he said. “It would’ve been a lot faster if you hadn’t had to look after me most of the way.”

“It’s not your fault for getting sick,” Sparrow said. “And all you really needed was some rest, good food, and Dr. Mao.”

WHILE ON THE road, trudging behind a cart, Shao had tried not to think too much about his hometown. Now he could admit how much he had missed its noisy sophistication, brightly lit streets where music blared out from nightclubs and delicious smells escaped through restaurant doors. He’d missed the gleam of polished automobiles and the gaudy flashes of neon signs. It was easy to take a route that avoided the edges of the Settlement, so that he wouldn’t have to look at the ugly barbed-wire barricades. He enjoyed walking its streets, pretending that war had never touched the city.

But today he took a rickshaw, promising the puller a silver coin if he ran fast. Shao checked the address on the business card one more time as the rickshaw rushed through traffic, cutting off other vehicles and taking shortcuts through alleys too narrow for cars. Shao got off on Nanho Road, a street of modest shops and apartments. He took the stairs two at a time to the building’s third floor hoping he wasn’t too late, that Dr. Mao’s office hours were not yet over. When he reached the landing, it was immediately obvious which flat contained the doctor’s office. A handwritten sign pasted on the door read DR. MAO BA. PHYSICIAN AND SURGEON.

Shao rapped on the door. When there was no reply, he pushed it open. An empty desk and chair, a tall filing cabinet, the pale green walls bare except for a pair of calligraphy scrolls. A folding screen of green fabric divided the room in half. The murmur of conversation came from behind the screen.