EVERYONE FROM MINGHUA 123 seemed all right. The university’s wagons and carts were back on the road and donkeys were being harnessed to their traces. A few of the handbarrows had tipped over but were being pushed upright. Lian and Meirong heard snatches of relieved conversation and couldn’t see any casualties. They slowed to a walk.

Then, as they got closer to the last cart at the end of the Minghua caravan, Meirong tightened her grip on Lian’s hand. The road beyond the last cart was pockmarked with bullet holes. The small stone bridge had been strafed. Students stood in a circle, some staring down, others looking away. Gaps between their legs revealed a figure lying still on the ground. A dark-blue uniform tunic and trousers, black shoes. A smear of blood. Before Lian and Meirong could get much closer, someone stepped in front of them.

“You don’t need to see this,” Shao said, gripping Lian’s shoulder. Shorty Ho stood beside him, helping block their view.

“Who is it?” Meirong whispered. “Is he . . . ?”

“Mr. Shen is dead. The only one of us harmed,” Shorty said.

Lian had known the teaching assistant only slightly, a polite nodding acquaintance when they passed each other in the halls. She hardly felt Meirong’s hands clutched tightly around her arm, barely heard her friend speaking to Shao and Shorty. The victims they had seen on the road a few hours ago had been nameless and faceless. But now the dead had a name. Mr. Shen had been one of their own.

“Mr. Shen is the first of us killed by the Japanese.” Shao’s voice was rough with barely controlled hatred. Lian flinched even though she knew the hostility wasn’t directed at her.

“The Japanese plane strafed the bridge and kept going,” Shorty said. “Luckily for us it was targeting the bridge and turned back before reaching the end of our convoy. But Mr. Shen had fallen behind.”

The circle of students parted as Professor Kang arrived, bringing with him two of the university’s laborers. The two men wrapped Shen’s body in a tarp, then lifted the bundle onto a handcart. One of them took the cart’s handles and with a nod to the professor, pulled it up the road.

The professor said something to Sparrow, who had been standing to one side, not joining in, not moving. She nodded and walked away. Sparrow looked shaken, but then, so were they all.

“What will happen to the . . . to Mr. Shen?” Shao asked the professor.

“We’ll be at Chuanjiao Monastery very soon,” Professor Kang said. “I’ll ask the monks to look after the burial.”

“We’re moving again,” Shorty said. “The carts and wagons are rolling. Shao, let’s go.”

Sparrow returned carrying a small chalkboard with ropes looped through holes at the corners. Professor Kang knelt on the ground to write, his strokes quick and precise.