Looking back, it was not only the students he wanted to control. It was me as well. I could die here, I realized, and no one would know, not until Mr. Gao thought to check on me. It was impossible for me to make my own connections. In San Francisco I might have blended in or found my way in Chinatown, even if I did not speak Cantonese. Not here, though. I could not even go to the grocery store on my own. It was too far. One of Mr. Gao’s colleagues picked me up twice a week and monitored me as I shopped for ingredients.

Walking into my first American grocery store—the closest comparison might be the one and only time I went to Great World, that huge amusement arcade in Shanghai. It was before you came to live with us, before it was bombed, back when it was five floors of acrobats, dancers, magic mirrors, fortune tellers, and gangster hangout spots, designed to dazzle and overwhelm. The grocery store wasn’t as crowded and didn’t have any sort of entertainer, but I experienced that same overwhelming feeling, looking up at its high ceilings and unbelievably bright lights, food as far as the eye could see. The way they displayed their fish, cleaned and descaled, spread across the clearest ice, then another row of refrigerated meats, wrapped in cellophane so you might see the fat in each cut, practically run your hand across it. And my favorite part—they would give you stamps for your purchases, which you could collect and trade in for appliances. I collected meticulously.

Though the house seemed huge to me, I now know it was tiny by American standards. There was the first floor with a kitchen and a seating area, which I arranged to be a restaurant. Then there was the second floor, more of an attic, really, where I slept. The most remarkable thing was the refrigerator. I had never seen one.

That first night, I remember opening my suitcase in the cold, bare attic with its low, slanted ceiling. I took out my clothes and spread them across the floor. Then I pulled out the US dollars they had given me, rolled up in my sock, and placed them next to my clothes. The rest of the suitcase was filled with boxes of pencils.

“I’m here,” I whispered in English, lying on top of my clothes, the strange smell of the US dollar seeping through the sweater I used as a pillow.