He told Sparrow very little about what he did when he was out with Sammy. But he knew Sparrow could tell. She still looked after Shao’s wardrobe and these days the suits she hung to air out reeked of cigarettes. Sometimes, there was lipstick on a collar, wine stains on a necktie. When she found gambling chits in trouser pockets, Sparrow put them in the lacquer tray on his chest of drawers. All without saying a word.

Shao regretted losing his temper with her. He didn’t understand his restlessness, the impatience. The drifting, untethered feeling, as though waiting for something to happen. Something beyond his control. It had seemed so heroic, traveling to Shanghai in the middle of a war to see his dying mother. Offering Lian the protection of his company. He’d done the right thing, he knew that. Even though he’d ended up sick and a burden, it had been better for Lian to travel with him and Sparrow than run away on her own.

But now, he found himself quelling resentment. Sitting beside his mother day after day had proved a thankless duty. The opiates from Dr. Mao clouded her mind. Her words were incoherent, ramblings that made no sense, questions he couldn’t answer. On the occasions when she was lucid, she was also in pain, suffering with every movement, even the slide of silk sheets over her skin could make her cry out.

“It’s as though I have powdered glass in my joints,” she said, closing her eyes as the nurse put the needle in her arm.

Shao felt useless. There were times he stayed out so late he slept through the morning then woke up filled with guilt for missing breakfast with his mother. But it didn’t matter. Dr. Mao was steadily increasing her dosage and she slept most of the time now. All Shao could do was hold her hand while she gazed at him, her vague smile still lovely. He couldn’t be sure she even knew him. Or his brothers or father when they came into the sickroom.

“She knows someone she loves is with her,” Dr. Mao said. “That’s what matters.”

Now Shao hardly went to her room except for short, token visits. It was too easy sliding into the life he had always known, giving in to people like Sammy Chung. He told himself he needed the distraction, deserved some fun.

He wondered if everyone at Minghua had reached Chengtu safely. He couldn’t help wishing he were still with his classmates. At least at Minghua, he’d been part of something important, something worthwhile. He wrote to Shorty Ho, addressing the letter to the Chengtu campus.

He hoped Shorty would write back, the lazy ass. He really missed Shorty.