The men’s bathhouse didn’t have running water. Rain barrels just outside the door collected water and inside were three shallow wooden tubs. A brick stove heated metal pails of water and a long wooden table held washbasins. By now the students considered this the height of luxury. The boys drew straws for the first shift. Shao, Shorty Ho, and Shorty’s best friend, Chen Ping, won the first draw. Towels thrown over their shoulders, the three grinned at their envious classmates and strolled through the door of the bathhouse, hands raised in mock victory.

“Ten minutes,” shouted a student at the end of the line, “or we’ll come and tip you out of those tubs.”

“Keep that door shut,” Shorty Ho hollered back, “you’re letting the cold air in!”

Shorty Ho pulled off his tunic and then his cardigan and sweater, his undershirt. He poured hot water into the shallow wooden tub, added some cold water from another bucket, and climbed in. Doubled up, knees to chest, the water just came to his hips. He ladled warm water over his head and groaned with pleasure.

It was amusing to Shao how much Shorty Ho had changed. He was no longer the fashionable, swaggering urbanite. Now he layered on clothing with more concern for warmth than style. He had shaved his head to discourage lice. Instead of his usual two-tone leather wing tips, he sported cloth shoes with straw sandals tied over them. The students’ leather shoes, made for sidewalks and classroom hallways, had fallen apart after constant walking on rough roads. As replacements, students bought the traditional cloth shoes available in every small town, the soles made from layers of cloth glued and sewn onto stiff cardboard. Then they tied straw sandals over the shoes, a trick learned from other foot travelers they’d met. The sandals kept cloth soles from touching damp earth and slowed down wear; they were also cheap to replace, only a penny for three pairs.

“The factory owner must’ve been a good employer,” Shao said, rubbing soap on his face, “to provide sleeping quarters and bathing facilities for his workers.”

“I can’t believe you’re that naïve,” Chen Ping said. “The owner charged them rent and took it out of their wages. He probably charged them for hot water, too. And the workers counted themselves lucky to have jobs at all.”

“You don’t know that,” Shao said. It was a mystery how someone as serious as Chen Ping had become such good friends with Shorty. Yet other strange friendships had developed on this journey. Lian and that talkative Yee Meirong, for instance.

“I do. Our family owns cotton mills,” Chen Ping said, pulling a sliver of soap out of a mesh bag. “It’s how things are done. Don’t you know how your family business operates?”