We both stepped aside as the woman entered. She carried a thin coat over her head, shielding her from the rain. She dropped her arms with a sigh of relief, taking in the scene around her. Then she looked at us.

“Is your mother here?”

She was a mousy woman, her thin hair wet and sticking to her cheeks. Her eyes were sunken, her voice hoarse. Unlike our mothers, who wore their qipaos when going out, this woman wore loose clothing and drowned in it.

“Not right now,” I said. “She won’t be back until late. Who are you?”

“A friend of your mother’s,” she said, fumbling with her purse. Then she pulled out a wooden box, much like the ones we had been packing earlier. “Or rather, my husband is friends with your father.” She swallowed. “Well, until . . .” She glanced between us. It seemed like she was going to make some sort of comment, maybe about our age, or how we shouldn’t let strangers in the house, but then she started crying, a curled-up, violent sob.

“Sit down,” you offered, pulling over a chair. She dropped into it, burying her head in her hands, still sobbing uncontrollably.

You jerked your head toward the back of the house. I sighed. You were right. It was time to get my grandmother.

She was already on her way. We ran into each other in the courtyard.

“What is that noise? Is somebody here?”

“Apparently she’s the wife of father’s friend,” I said. I lent her an arm, and we walked to the front of the company, where you sat awkwardly across from the woman.

She straightened when she saw my grandmother, and stood suddenly, sending her chair teetering before bowing her head a few times, mumbling all the honorifics. You passed her another handkerchief.

“Do you . . . ?” the woman began. “Can you also . . . ?” She held out the box of pencils in front of my grandmother; her shaking hands made it tremble.

Any sympathy my grandmother had for her evaporated. She scowled.

“Come back tomorrow if you must,” she barked. “Can’t you see it is late?”

“I know. I’m sorry. But I must leave Shanghai tonight. It isn’t safe for me or my son here anymore. I need to get these pencils—”

“We can’t help you.”

“Please. They were my husband’s pencils. He wrote poems with them. When we fled here, we lost them all. And now he’s—” Her throat caught. “Please. I want to remember him. I want something so our son can remember him.”

I expected my grandmother to be untouched. But she softened. Still, she scowled and took her time replying.

“Your husband . . . was a friend of Kangshen’s?” She said my father’s name softly, gently.

The woman nodded, vigorously at first, before turning timid.

“Same intelligence division. We got word today that my husband was caught. He . . .” Her words trailed off yet again. My grandmother paled.