So the professor remained beside Old Fan and pressed his back against the side of the trench, looking up as the planes passed overhead, going on to Lu’an. Then came the explosions. He sighed, thinking of the townspeople’s terror, the destruction.

Then he heard another rumbling, which at first he thought was more planes. But there was something wild in that pounding. He squinted toward the horizon and blinked. A herd of horses thundered toward the field. The ground shook. They were larger than oxen, larger even than elephants, long maned with coats sleek as satin, hooves shining like polished brass. Every ripple of their strong haunches, every toss of their necks made him yearn to gallop with them, to feel the sheer joy of running. They were heading north. As the horses neared the ditch, the professor saw that some carried riders, the most beautiful men and women he’d ever seen. Riding bareback, dressed in bright silks, the Horse Gods’ long hair flowed behind them like banners.

One of the Horse Gods stopped beside the child and leaned down, laughing. “Come with us, Little One,” he said, holding out his hand. “Let’s go for a ride.”

The little girl sat up with a delighted smile and the Horse God swung her up in front of him. A moment later, the hoofbeats faded and all Professor Kang saw was an empty field. Beside him, Old Fan scanned the sky. He showed no signs of having seen anything unusual. He clambered out of the ditch.

“That was loud, but it didn’t last too long,” Old Fan said. “Shall I help you onto the road, sir?”

Professor Kang looked along the ditch. He’d seen the Horse God take the girl away, but the small body was still there, still lying in the ditch. He moved along the trench toward the little girl. She lay curled up on her side, one thumb in her mouth. He took the other hand and felt for a pulse but there was none. She was dead. Gently he put her hand back. Something pale and round rolled out from the curve of the frail body. A turnip.

“Old Fan,” he called. “I need you to carry this girl to Lu’an with us. She deserves a burial even if we don’t know her name.”

“That’s my sister.” A child’s voice. A bedraggled girl looked down into the trench at the professor, blank eyes in a gaunt face. “My little sister,” she added, as if to clarify. She picked up the turnip and tucked it in her tunic.

“Where are your parents?” the professor asked.