He was writing a letter at his desk with one of our pencils. He chewed on the end of it, his teeth biting into the phoenix carving.

“Not long,” he said, readjusting his new watch. “Ready for your next mission?”

He handed me the letter folded into one long rectangle. I ran to the front of the house where Mother sat working the kiln. She rummaged through her boxes of completed pencils before finding one with the surname Gao printed across it.

She opened the box, lifted the tray inside that held eight custom pencils, then slipped the letter in.

“Mr. Gao lives in the French Concession,” she said. “Ask him to send his reply in pencil. Do not ask him any other questions.”

Normally, I would have taken my bicycle, which had a basket attached that Mother had made for me. It was perfect for holding boxes of pencils. But my father did not think it proper for girls to ride bicycles. That, and the city was becoming increasingly cramped. More and more, Mother told me to take the tram, sometimes even a rickshaw. I would stare out the window, vaguely aware that each morning corpses were being carted off the streets, out of the city.

Mr. Gao lived on a tree-lined cobblestone street, Rue something or other, in an apartment with beautifully arched windows, typical of the French Concession. His house was larger than ours, and not far from the only other landmark I knew in the area, the former residence of Sun Yat-sen, who overthrew the Qing dynasty two decades earlier.

“Delivery from the Phoenix Pencil Company,” I recited when he opened the door, holding out the box of pencils with both hands.

“Thank you,” Mr. Gao said. He was young, wore a high-collared suit with his hair carefully slicked back. If he had not had such a serious expression, I would have thought him handsome. Instead, his severity made me straighten, speak clearly and formally.

“How is your mother doing?” he asked.

“Very well, thank you for asking.”

“And your grandmother?”

“Very well as well, thank you.”

He pulled out an envelope with his payment. I pocketed it quickly.

“My mother says you can reply in pencil,” I added, though I did not know what that meant.

He raised an eyebrow.

“Will you wait out here for a minute?”

“Yes, sir.”

He closed the door. I planned to read whatever response Mr. Gao sent for my father on the tram ride. I wondered if Mr. Gao was his employer or a colleague. Back then, I still thought my father a doctor, and so I assumed Mr. Gao was one, too. I hoped the letter would say my father did not have to return to the war, that he could stay in Shanghai with us. After all, there were more than enough people in the city who needed medical attention.