The Adventures of Ace Freeman and his Sidekick, Half-Pint

Episode One

A Friend is Made

Wednesday, July tenth, twenty twenty-four, is not noted for anything particularly special to anyone else other than me. It is my birthday. For all the good it does me.

“Samuel, I know you’re awake, get out of bed,” orders my mother, entering the doorway of the spartan bedroom I share with my parents.

“But it’s my birthday,” I complain, perilously close to a whine. One does not whine in the hearing of my mother. It simply is not done. Despite turning fourteen today, Mom cuts me no slack. “The Regional Commandant is coming. Wash your face.” She pulls her best dress out the wardrobe holding our clothes.

“Is he bringing food?” I ask.

“Hurry,” she says.

My mother’s admonition doesn’t encourage me to give up what little body heat my blankets hold. Inadequate as it is, my standard issue cot is more inviting than facing the day. Life in a laogai camp, reform through labor, is not easy in the best of times. The monotony of the routine helps, and disrupting normal activity is always an evil harbinger.

I snuggle deeper into my thin covers, wondering if the Regional Commandant, the Big Man’s boss, found out about the new order at the clothes factory. Mom had been ordered to start a new line of celebrity slippers. There had been a promised bonus, off the work charts of course, for a quick turnover. Or maybe he’s here because of this year’s disappointing harvest. It will be our second one in a row. Quota or no quota, wheat and corn do not grow in the cold. They need warmth to germinate and produce. Even I know that.

I curl myself in the tightest ball I can, trying to absorb the last bit of warmth, luxuriating warmth. The tension in my muscles melt as the sun’s rays bead my forehead with sweat. It trickles into my eyes and the salt stings. The creak of the needs-oil front door opening proceeds a blast of cold air which slaps me in the face, reminding me that even though it is July in the Great Plains, warmth is a two-year-old memory. A disappointed sigh escapes me. I uncurl. My attempt to dream had been a futile gesture.

My gurgling stomach reminds me that it is empty. A too often occurrence here at Camp Six North. I trade the hot sun for a vision of a sizzling hamburger, stinging my hand with popping grease. Biting into it, I put up with my hurting teeth to taste the charred meat.

Summer in the Great Plains is not supposed to be freezing, but it is, and it’s getting colder. The blustery wind blows constantly out of the north. Today, it’s an ill wind that blows in the Regional Commandant, overseer of FEMA’s Region Six. Mom and Dad try not to show it, but the lines in their already worn faces are deeper. I’ve heard it said bad fortune follows the Commandant’s visits. I’ve seen it, too.

“Wash your face.” She repeats over her shoulder as she buttons her best dress. “Hurry.”

My mother’s admonition doesn’t encourage me to give up what little body heat my blankets hold, but the loudspeakers mounted on poles scattered throughout the camp do. They crackle and shriek while the feedback is adjusted out. “Attention. Attention. All prisoners assemble at the main gate.”

Reluctantly, I roll out of bed and break the thin film of ice covering the surface of the water bucket. Fuel for heat costs money the CCP isn’t willing to spend. A quick splash on my face, a hurried pat with the towel, and I scamper out the door to catch my parents.

The wind brings the rumble of an approaching convoy. I stop for a moment to stare out of the concertina topped fencing surrounding the camp. Almost a dozen black specks approach from the south, circling the camp to enter the north gate. The guards push and prod us until we line both sides of the street, three deep. I squirm my way to the front row, glad that I’m small for my age. Facing south, I have put three rows of people between my back and the wind. Parades are what you make of them and the hour break from work to greet the Commandant is worth it. Even if we do have to stand in the cold.

Wind carries the scent of diesel as the rumble gets louder. The gates open and a canvas-topped deuce-and-a-half drives through, followed by the Commandant’s car, long, black, and sparkling in the cold sun.

He’s got a car! Not even the Big Man has that privilege.

The Chinese national anthem blares over the loudspeakers. We wave our tiny UN flags. At the end of our short line, two blue-helmeted soldiers jump out the back of the lead truck and flank the Regional Commandant’s car as it turns toward the Administrator’s building. Five other canvas-topped trucks pour through the gate, past our welcoming line, and stop in the square next to the gazebo a little way beyond us.

Again, Commandant’s men leap out of the first truck. This time it is a squad carrying machine guns. Their uniforms appear new. And gloves.

They wear gloves. I bet they’re warm, too.

I tuck my hands under my armpits. It helps, a little.

The soldiers train their weapons on the remaining five deuce and a half’s while the drivers unfasten the canvas flaps securing the truck beds.

“Out. Out. Quickly, now,” says the soldier’s leader in fairly decent English.

People help each other climb down. They are ragged, worn people who have been ill-treated and ill-fed. They look just like us. They must think wrong thoughts, too.

The car’s horn honks. As a group we turn toward the sound. The Commandant’s car pulls up to the Big Man’s building about a hundred feet away and parks. The driver keeps the motor running. Smoky-looking condensation puffs out of the tailpipe. The two helmeted guards march into the camp administrator’s office.

What’s going on? How much trouble is the Big Man in?

My heartbeat quickens in anticipation. It wouldn’t hurt my feelings to see the Big Man reap a bit of his own crop. So few of our Chinese masters are ever punished for anything. Several moments later the door bangs open and the administrator, face half covered in shaving lather, unbuttoned overcoat flapping behind him, is unceremoniously ushered to the rearmost door of the Commandant’s car.

The window lowers. The group is too far away for me to hear what they say, but the administrator wrings his hands and nods a lot. Neither are good signs because when the Big Man is unhappy the camp suffers. I hate him. I remember some years ago, five, six, it doesn’t matter, it was the time the administrator killed my grandfather.

# # #

The day was a warm, but not too hot. Birds still flocked in trees singing for mates, and sweet-scented flowers bloomed in beds surrounding our barracks. Grandpa, sitting on the second step of the gazebo, had gathered us all together and we sat at his feet. Despite Bibles and religious instruction being banned, he was teaching Sunday School.

“Moses said, ‘Let my people go!’” Grandpa flushed red after saying it and stormed up the gazebo steps. At the top he turned toward the admin office and yelled, “God damn the Administrator!”

The front door of our renovated barracks, building six twenty, now a crudely improvised multi-family home and the closest one to both the central pavilion and the administrator’s office, banged open and shut. Mom and Dad rushed over. Mom grasped at my arm and tugged me toward the house, continually glancing over her shoulder in fear.

Dad mounted the stairs and, breathing heavily, said, “Pops, shut up! Please.”

Mom closed the door behind us. Shortly afterward, Dad returned. His shoulders drooped and his eyes were red and puffy. Soon sawing and hammering drowned out the birds singing. Mom sent me to the bedroom.

I stood before the grime-stained window and stared at the washed-out cars and trucks decorating the curtains. Many were the times I had dreamed of driving one of them to safety beyond the camp. Now, I didn’t want to know what our masters constructed beyond the tattered cloth. Mom and Dad wanted to protect me but there is no protection from the truth. Still, I had stood and stared, trying to suspend belief.

Grandpa always told the most outlandish stories. One time he said he went into a grocery store. I had to stop him to ask, “Grandpa, what’s a grocery store?”

“Samuel,” he said, “you wouldn’t believe it if you saw it. Produce! More lettuce heads than you’ve seen in your life. They couldn’t sell them all before they spoiled and yet they did. It was an amazing time. Carrots as long as my arm. I’m telling you; we were a land of plenty before they got here.”

We neither heard nor saw the administrator’s goons approach that time. They dragged Grandpa away and beat him before letting him go.

This time is different. This time I knew he wouldn’t come back.

Grandpa never hurt anybody. He just didn’t believe right. Knowledge of the past is anathema, or at least speaking it aloud is.

The construction ceased and the camp speakers called everyone out for the “Public Struggle Session.”

I had begged not to go, I just couldn’t, but Mom made me. Her eyes glistened, but like the rest of us she does as she is told. Outside, I and the rest of the children who had been sitting on the steps were directed front and center to watch unobstructed. A prison guard slipped the noose around Grandpa’s neck. The muted speech of the crowd stopped.

Why, Grandpa, Why?

The political officer climbed halfway up the gazebo steps. “Prisoner number six two one november alpha, previously declared Outspoken Critic of the Regime, is now considered a Rightist, and is declared guilty of incorrectly guiding public opinion. The Party will rid itself of this public poison for the good of the community.”

A sudden gust of wind carried away the sentencing words just as they carried away any thoughts of disobedience. I spoke my farewell silently to the only real friend I had in camp.

The thunk of the lever slamming against the stop had been unnaturally loud in the silence. The trap door fell away and Grandpa jerked to a stop at the end of his rope. Like a communal effort, the assembled gasped as one. My breath labored, coming in fits and starts like the beating of my heart. Though wanting to turn away, I couldn’t.

Grandpa hung from the gibbet, twitching in the breeze. I missed him already.

# # #

The memory brings me a moment of dizziness. A hand grabs my shoulder, steadying me and bringing me back to the present. From behind I hear Dad’s forlorn whisper, “Unlock your knees. You know better.”

I flex one knee, then the other. I must look like the Big Man, hopping from one foot to the other. I dare not smile as I watch the administrator squirm. Not that I care a cockroach's crap for the monster, but his pain means punishment for us.

The Big Man yells out in some singsong Chinese dialect that I don’t understand. Two of the Commandant’s soldiers single out a tall confident-looking man from the group of newcomers. He has manacles connecting his wrists and another pair around his ankles. The guards approach him from either side, one holds a section of chain to connect his hand restraints to his feet.

The prisoner feints toward the guard with the chain and lunges toward the one holding his weapon at the ready. The second guard steps back and his safety of his assault rifle releases with an audible clatch. The prisoner stands still and lowers his arms to his side.

The guards secure the manacles on his hands to the ones shackling his feet. As they escort the prisoner to the Commandant’s car, I get the feeling the new man could have overpowered the Chinese had he chosen to.

The Big Man, still standing before the Commandant’s window, captures my gaze and refuses to let go. Even from across the hundred-foot parking lot, the malevolence in his eyes withers my will to resist. He crooks his finger at me. My heart flutters.

Me? What did I do?

A compelling need to flee urges me to run as fast as I can. A hand on my back propels me forward.

“Do as he says,” hisses my father.

I dash ahead to secure my balance as much as respond to the administrator.

 Coming to a stop before him, I realize that I have never been this close to the man responsible for the camp. I’ve seen the meanness of the ogre and watched him savor the pain he inflicted on others, but from a distance. Instead of a menacing, fire-breathing monster, I see a dumpy, balding man who doesn’t look like he misses any meals.

Keep him happy.

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Straightening before him, I try not to shiver. “Sir.”

“Take off your shirt and give it to me.”

Terror petrifies me. I can’t move. Am I going to get whipped? Why does he want my shirt?

“Now, boy!”

I take off my shirt and hand it over. The back of his hand cracks against my cheekbone, splitting the skin with his knuckles. I know better than to cry out. It only incites his lust to inflict more pain. But I hate him more now than ever. I bury it deep within me, put it with all the other hurts, all the other freezing cold nights, all the other hunger pangs I have suffered. Above all, I do not let it show on my face.

“Next time, be quick about it.” He wipes the lather off his face with my shirt and hands it back. “Show these men to the processing center. Tell Chen Li to incarcerate this one. Go on.”

Chen Li! Pick someone else.

Shivers tingle between my shoulder blades. I remember a bright light blinding me. A high-pitched whine shrieking along my nerve endings promising endless torture. Voices screaming out of darkened rooms. My spirits sink. This day is getting worse and worse.

I quickly back out of his arm’s reach and peer at the nametags of the two soldiers in charge of the prisoner. Jaw Long, like a dragon. His nose is as crooked as his namesake’s tongue.

He’s the fighter.

Jianyu, building the universe, has the flat face of the peasant class and wears round wire-rim glasses. I catch his eye. Knowing it’s impolite to point with my hand, I jerk my head in the direction I want to go. Still holding my soiled shirt, we set off.

A half mile to the west, around a tree line and tucked behind the bomb complex, is the processing center. The building connects to the outside world by north-south train tracks and paralleling the tracks, a deteriorating runway. Guard towers protect the opening in the fence allowing the tracks access to the camp.

The weekly train was bad enough, every Tuesday it’s mournful cry fading to the south reminded me that I could not leave this place, but when a special train whistles, the processing center is off-limits to all but the unfortunate ones whose body parts have been sold. Grandpa used to say an apple a day keeps the doctor away. In our case it was more juniper berries make Chen Li wary.

As this portion of the sidewalk between the homes and the bomb complex is kept in good repair, I set a good pace instead of the coolie shuffle preferred by the Chinese guards. Common sense tells me to get this over with, to spend as little time near the place of death as I can manage. On the bright side, my day in either the fields or factory, wherever I’ll be assigned, will be shorter, provided I escape Chen Li.

The chink of the prisoner’s chains beat a steady rhythm against the concrete as he draws even with me. Jaw Long, rifle at port arms, trails him.

“Hey, kid. How’s life treating ya?” asks the prisoner.

Say what? Don’t you have eyes?

I ignore him and keep walking. “Try not to run into the arms of trouble,” Grandpa used to say. Besides, the stranger chills me to the bone. What did he do to deserve shackles? The brutal nature I see in Jaw Long’s face stokes my reluctance to answer.

We draw abeam of the bomb factory. The complex has been many things in the past, a fertilizer plant, a sports drink bottling plant, but when the administrator discovered in the records that the complex was originally a bomb plant, the refurbishment began. The camp had more people in those days and soon we were making armaments for the Chinese Army.

“Hey, boy, you’re bleeding,” says the prisoner.

There is no insult in his tone, more of a lazy drawl. I check out his too-short ankle chains then glance up at his face.

“Eh, you get used to it,” he says. He shoots a quick glance over his shoulder. “These sick bastards think it’s funny.”

“No talkee,” said Jianyu from behind me.

My eyes drop. I search for a clean spot on my shirt, free of soap, so it won’t sting my cut. Through the cloth I see the shadow of my fingers. If I don’t get some warmer clothes, I’m not going to make it until winter. I dab my cheek.

“What is this place, boy?” asks the prisoner.

Again, his voice is easy on the ears. I want to answer just to hear him speak again. I study him through my peripheral vision. He’s younger than my father but not by much. His hair, lank and in need of washing, is still dark. Like the rest of us here at camp, he is gaunt. His clothes are little better than mine and he is Caucasian, like me. He carries himself different though, as if he’s not cowed. I wonder who he is. “Region Six North, Camp Alpha,” I say.

Jaw Long’s rifle butt thuds into the older man’s shoulder. “No talkee.”

The man’s face hardens but he remains silent.

I follow where his eyes had been. Four sooty, concrete smokestacks loom over us in stark contrast to the intense blue of the sky. They remind me of Grandpa’s heroes carved on some mountain, defiant men, refusing to submit. Two of the smokestacks have smoke drifting out of them, which is snatched away by the constant northerly wind.

If mom were here, I’d get her sharp tongue. She doesn’t like confrontation, but something about the stranger compels me to risk the wrath of Jaw Long and answer his original question. “Those are the smokestacks for the bomb plant. It’s full of stoolies who work there because it’s warm.”

The man grins. “Much obliged, Half Pint.”

I have no idea what he means by half-pint, but he says it with warmth. My mouth twitches into a smile, something I rarely do.

We pass the line of trees cutting off our view of the main gate area. Not surprisingly, the deterioration of grounds maintenance begins. The crumbling sidewalk leads past the plant complex’s other three outbuildings, squat, nondescript structures where we mix the chemicals for the bombs.

The rhythmic chink of the prisoner’s chains break time as he stumbles forward a step before recovering. He catches my eye and looks toward the three buildings set off from the furnaces. I check out our escort. Jaw Long stares stakes into the prisoner’s back while section leader Jianyu is fixated on Jaw Long. I mime a mortar and pestle.

He winks.

The bright spark dancing in his eyes suddenly worry me. The hair on my arms rises and I shiver, but not from the cold. I’ve seen that smile before. He thinks he’ll steal some explosives and make an escape. Many have thought it before him. They have a special corner in the graveyard and the guards often urinate on them when they are off duty and drunk.

What did the stranger do to be singled out? I wonder. I should stop helping him.

My mind searches to find a way to distance myself from whatever sin the stranger committed that requires a trip to the processing center. I have no desire to join in his punishment.

Is Chen going to kill him or put him in iso?

Not that there is much difference. Some people go nuts in isolation, some come out hard and bitter. In either case, they all end up in the graveyard shortly thereafter, most being shot by the guards for allegedly trying to escape.

“Ouch!” A particularly sharp-edged concrete shard pokes hard into my arch. The thin soles of my shoes provide little protection against the crumbling concrete.

Pay attention to where you are going.

“Why don’t we use the street? It’s not crumbling,” the prisoner asks.

“Not allowed,” I grunt and turn away, taking pains now not to seem friendly.

Thankfully, the pitiful remains of the sidewalk finally surrender to the dirt path skirting the vacant lot leading to the processing center. I limp along as bravely as I can, but each step becomes more of a burden. My pace slows.

“Hurry,” says Jianyu. He emphasizes his command with a shove in my back.

I try to push through on my sore foot, fighting not only against my tender arch but also the fear growing with each step closer to Chen Li. I slow even further. The stranger offers his arm for support.

Jaw Long slaps down the stranger’s arm with the barrel of his rifle. “No touchee.”

 The next few moments blur by. The stranger grabs me and shoves me in the direction of Jianyu. Off balance, I hurl myself at the guard and wrap my arms around his waist. The linseed oil on his rifle stock tastes of nuts. I keep my face pressed against his weapon, hoping to pin it to his stomach. Jianyu tries to pry me off with his hand.

His wrist is in front of my mouth. I close my eyes and bite down with all my strength. Hot salty blood drips onto my tongue. Jianyu viciously curses me in several Chinese dialects while trying to push me away, one-handed. Behind me there is a rattle of chains, then the sickening thud of impacted flesh and snapping bones.

Who’s winning?

“Keep yer head down,” says the prisoner.

My assurance is mangled by a mouthful of Jianyu’s wrist. There’s a dull thud. Jianyu grunts and falls to the ground, dragging me with him. Opening my eyes, I sneak a peek toward his face. A hot, wet liquid splashes my cheek and chest.

“Get off him,” orders the prisoner.

I roll away, responding to the voice of command.

“We attacked the Guards. It’s Chen Li for me.” My jumbled thoughts race incoherently through my brain. Get up. Run! No, hide. One overlaps the other before any action can be taken. Obey. Just obey the voice.

The soft-spoken stranger has Jaw Long’s rifle in his hands, bayonet imbedded in Jianyu’s throat. He twists his wrists. Our guard goes limp. I look wildly about for Jaw Long and find him in a crumpled heap behind me.

Have we been seen?

Sweat breaks out on my forehead. I desperately search the way we came for signs of pursuit. I strain my ears, listening for any shouted warnings. Thank God the trees in the windbreak shield us. No hurried footsteps or raised voices seek us.

My first urge is to run back to the administrator, prostrate myself before him, and proclaim my innocence. I pant, unable to decide. My focus darts from dead bodies to tree line and back, unwilling to settle. “Safety. Where’s safety?”

“Easy, Half Pint. Slow down. Easy.”

The slow, soothing voice and tamping down gesture brings me back from the precipice of hysteria. My breathing slows and my mind begins assimilating facts in a more orderly manner.

“Wipe your face,” says the stranger, bending to search Jianyu’s pockets for the key to the manacles. They soon fall free, followed by the ankle restraints. Despite our grim situation, the beaming smile of the stranger encourages me.

I wipe my face and, as expected, my shirt comes away bloody. Frantic, I wipe off as much as I can. The administrator will have me executed if he sees it. “What have you done?”

He sticks out his now unencumbered hand. “Ace. Ace Freeman.”

I stare at his hand. What I see offered before me is not a hand, it is a fork in the path. Taking that hand means I will have no home, not even the dilapidated four walls and roof that house me and my family. I will never see or hug my mother or father again. Taking that hand means giving up everything.

“Now, don’t you fret none,” says the prisoner. “Ace’ll take care of you. You with me? Pardners?”

Again, I hesitate. Unsure. I see the calculation behind his eyes. If I refuse, will he kill me like he did the guards?

Instead of attacking he says, “At least help me drag the bodies to the trees.”

I nod, and he takes Jianyu by the shoulders while I grab the feet. The material of the pant leg is some sort of gaberdine, and it feels thick and comfy. I spend a moment wishing I owned a pair like them.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” says Ace.

I harden my heart against the impulse to wear the clothes. “Let’s hide the bodies before we get caught.”

A couple of minutes later a thick layer of leaves and twigs cover both guards and Ace looks like an unkempt Chinese soldier. The other uniform lies on the ground at my feet, along with the rifle, boots, and utility belt. Temptation gnaws at my resistance. I’m so cold, but if I take Ace’s offer, how long will I stay warm? Dead bodies are always cold.

“Last chance, kid.”

Kid? What happened to Half Pint?

The sudden pang of loss makes absolutely no sense to me, but I don’t want Ace leaving. I blurt, “What will we do? Where will we go?” I wring my hands, unable to decide. “I can’t.”

My nose explodes in pain, blood spurts across my face. Another blow to my temple and I taste leaves and dirt mingling with salty blood before succumbing to unconsciousness.

# # #

Voices.

Awareness comes in a flash.

The Big Man.

As usual, he is not happy. I lie still, eyes shut, listening, and hoping to discover my whereabouts. I’m on a bed. That much I know. I’m under a sheet and a blanket. A warm blanket.

“If I wanted excuses,” rages the Big Man, “I’d talk to my whore.”

“The child brought to me unconscious,” says the other voice. English is not his first language. “Dressed as you see. He remains unconscious. I know nothing of guns or clothing. I know nothing of a second prisoner. When he wakens you can question him.”

“Give him a shot and wake him up,” orders the administrator. “I haven’t got all day.”

I gasp. A shot? I’m at the processing center. My heart pounds erratically, like a wheat thrasher that slipped a belt. I pant in counterpoint. Get out. I’ve got to get out.

Footsteps approach. “It would seem your wait is ended, Administrator.”

Don’t let him see you afraid. It’ll make it worse.

I squeeze my eyes shut and tense my muscles so tight I shake.

“Calm down, child,” says Chen Li.

Fingers open my eye lid. A bright light shines in my eye. It’s that day again. My first trip to the processing center.

He’s going to torture me! I’ve got to get away. Before the noise starts.

An exasperated Chen Li tries to hold me down with one hand and strap me to the bed with the other. “Quit fighting.”

A high-pitched whine breaks through Chen Li’s grunts.

I scream, “You’re going to kill me! No-o-o!”

“I recognize you now, you sniveling little coward,” says Chen Li. “Administrator, put that dental drill down and help me.”

Two sets of hands overpower my wild gyrations. The burn of an inserted needle pricks my arm. My desire to resist abandons me. I lie back, totally at peace. Chen Li takes my arm and rotates it palm up. He places a rubber strip around my upper arm and selects a vein. Fascinated, I watch every movement.

“Big stick,” he says and he’s not kidding.

A bigger needle gives a bigger burn. The next moment a healthy dose of Mister Feel Good wooziness pumps through my veins and I haven’t a care in the world. A voice asks me questions. Lots of questions. I cheerfully answer, content in my serenity.

Something slams down on a tabletop, rattling a tray holding metallic instruments.  A disturbing ripple alters my tranquility.

“He’s lying,” says the administrator, his voice edged with frustration.

“He cannot lie under sodium pentothal. He does not know how,” says Chen Li. “And if you pound my tray and cut your fist on my scalpel, you can bind it yourself.”

“Give him some more,” demands the Big Man.

“It will kill him.”

Like the administrator’s concerned. I giggle absurdly and float on.

 “It would be one less mouth to feed,” mutters the administrator. Footsteps stomp out of the room.

“While you’re sedated,” says Chen Li, “I’m going to fix your teeth.”

Not even the sound of the drill penetrates my euphoria.

# # #

I wake the next morning in my own bed.

How’d I get here?

I gingerly touch my jaw and wince. My hurt is proof enough for me that last night was real. The sizzle of popping grease escapes from the kitchen. It precedes the aroma of eggs fried in butter.

For me?

I swallow several times in anticipation.

“How are you feeling?” Mom hollers from the next room.

I wouldn’t say great, but considering yesterday, a catastrophe would be an improvement. One thing I am sure of, I’m rid of Ace. I hear Grampa whispering in my ear, “Try not to run into the arms of trouble.” Strangely, I miss the stranger. He brought excitement, danger, a purpose. He got my teeth fixed. Around him, life was more than mere existence.

“I know you’re awake,” Mom says. “You quit snoring. If you want one of these, you’d better get in here.”

I roll out of bed muttering, “I don’t snore. Do I snore? That would be a grown-up thing.”

I pad out of my chilly bedroom into the warm kitchen. My shirt has gone missing somewhere in my escapade. I don’t know what I’m going to do about that, but at the moment I intend to enjoy my egg. I cut the white away from around the yoke and spoon the liquid gold into my mouth. Even a sunny-side-up egg pains me when I bite into it. I catch the yoke running down my chin with a spoon. I thank God for my mother’s foresight in making something soft. I don’t believe I could have eaten anything I had to chew.

“That was quite an adventure you had,” Dad says. “Care to talk about it?”

It was my intention to say as little as possible until I had time to think yesterday through, but the concerned tone in Dad’s simple question triggers me. The words flood out. “I have been trying not to think about it. I’m not sure why he did it, but he hit me. Out of the blue. I never even saw it coming. He hit me.”

Dad sits back, agitated. “The administrator should have known better than to send a boy to escort a murderer.”

Mom shushes Dad and sets a glass of water in front me. “He must have liked you.” Her expression hardens as she stares at Dad. “The man was chained and still killed two armed guards. How many more should the administrator have sent?”

Dad wilts.

“What about me?” I say, drawing attention back to myself. “Look what he did to my nose.”

Mom gives me her stern eye. “It’s hard to see damage while the bandages are on it. You wouldn’t be whining, would you?”

My head shakes so hard in denial my jaw hurts. “The egg was delicious, Mom.”

With a final curt nod, Mom leaves and it is over. I think. Before I can make up my mind about licking the last few drops of yoke off my plate, Mom comes back with a light-blue cotton shirt and hands it to me. My mouth hangs open in disbelief.

It is standard Chinese laogai issue, but the shirt is heavier than it should be. I run my fingers under the collar. Gaberdine lines the inside like a vest. It’s hard to see past the unshed tears blurring my vision. I don’t know what Mom bartered with one of the newcomers to get such luxury, even eggs, but I rise from my chair and hug her.

She holds me tight and whispers, “They came from him. Eggs, shirt, all of it.”

Ace!