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  “Olivier!” squealed Lucie, jumping for joy.

  “You think I’d been gone a week!” he said.

  “A whole night and a whole day is enough!” complained Mama, sitting up from the mat. “Where have you been this time?” Her words were angry, but her pleasure was undisguised.

  “That’s my business,” declared Olivier. He was already taller than his father had been, with a broad face and handsome features.

  “He’s been hunting!” announced Pascal, who had followed him inside.

  Olivier made a face at Pascal for giving away his surprise. “Here,” he said triumphantly, tossing a sticky lump wrapped in a large leaf to Sylvie. “There’s more where that came from.”

  The package gave off the sweet, tangy odor of fresh red meat. She unwrapped the leaf to find enough to feed them for two days. It made her mouth water, but she frowned.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “It’s bushpig,” Olivier told her proudly. “I caught it.”

  Lucie blurted in awe, “How?”

  “I dug a hole and laid a trap. Then I chased it into the pit.”

  “How could you be so stupid?” admonished Sylvie, getting to her feet. The Tanzanian police shot people for poaching animals from the bush around Nyarugusu. The Congolese weren’t even allowed to go outside of the camp.

  Olivier threw her an angry look. “All the men do it. We’ll have meat every night for a week, and I’ll sell the rest for lots of money.”

  “You think the police won’t find out?”

  “I was careful. No one saw me.”

  “The camp guards will find out when you sell it. And people will smell it cooking.”

  “They won’t find out,” Olivier insisted, wounded that his gift was unappreciated. “You can watch us eat it, Two Face.”

  At the nickname, Sylvie turned away to hide her scar—a stupid habit she’d developed, because she knew there was no way to hide it.

  Mama struggled up from the mat and took Olivier’s prize from Sylvie, weighing it in her hands. She held it up to her nose and sniffed it as though she was shopping at the market, just like in the old days.

  “Cut the meat into small pieces and cook it with the beans,” she instructed Sylvie. “No one will smell it, and for once we’ll eat well.” Olivier looked triumphant. “But be careful who you sell the rest to,” she told him, wagging her finger. “We can trust no one here but ourselves.”

  Anger clouded Olivier’s face. “You should trust me!” he said, and strode out of the hut—gone again for who knew how long, this time.

  “Your temper has done it again, Sylvie!”

  Something else to blame on me! thought Sylvie. Without answering, she knelt back down and began sharpening the one knife they owned against a stone. Where does Olivier disappear to? she fretted. Who is he with? There were many bad people in the camp, people who would rob and even murder. With Mama the way she was, it had been up to Sylvie to keep Olivier safe from people like that, but she couldn’t do it anymore, not when he wouldn’t listen to her. How much longer could she keep Pascal safe, or Lucie? Worry and work, work and worry, she chanted to herself in rhythm with the knife strokes.

  Then another chant bubbled up, catching her off guard. Someday we will be free. Every refugee knew how dangerous it was to hope, but there hope was, anyway, keeping time with the knife, demanding equal attention with worry. Someday we will be gone from here. Someday we will be free. She chanted it over and over, until the knife was sharp enough to cut the meat. Until she almost believed it.

  FROM THE CROWDED RAILWAY CAR, Laiping craned her neck to get a first glimpse of the city of Shenzhen through the window. Older Cousin Min said that fourteen million people lived here. Back in her village, Laiping had tried to imagine what a city of that size would look like. Min, who went out from their village two years ago, told her when she came home at the New Year that Shenzhen was like Hong Kong or Shanghai—shiny and new, lit up by skyscrapers and the neon glow of the shops. That was in February, just four months ago. Laiping could barely believe that she was already on her way to the city.

  It was night when the train reached the outskirts of Shenzhen, but Laiping saw no bright lights. Rain was falling, obscuring the view. All she could make out were squat buildings—endless rows of them receding into the drizzle and haze. Laiping wondered if the skyscrapers were hidden by the clouds—or whether they existed at all. Maybe Min had invented them, wanting to impress everyone in their village. Maybe she’d made up her stories of swimming pools and restaurants and shopping malls built especially for the workers. Suddenly, Laiping felt a pang of homesickness. She thought of her mother wiping her eyes on her sleeve as the train pulled away from the station, of Baba at her side, frail, but waving to her bravely. What if Min wasn’t waiting for her as she promised? Where would Laiping turn in a city of fourteen million strangers? But she caught herself. If Min was waiting for her and she saw tears in her eyes, she would call her a baby.

  As they’d waited for the train that morning, Laiping’s father told her that when he was young, Shenzhen was just a fishing village. “Now it is the third largest city in all of China,” Baba said. “A place of opportunity, where even a country girl can find a good job.”

  “I’m glad you are going, Laiping,” her mother added through her tears. “There is no future for you if you stay here.”

  Laiping knew what her mother wasn’t saying—that with Baba’s health failing, it was up to her to send money home. Min had promised that if Laiping came to Shenzhen, she would help her find a well-paying job making computers or mobile phones—even though, at fifteen, Laiping was still a year too young to work legally. Min said she would take care of that, too.

  Over the loudspeaker, the conductor shouted out the name of Laiping’s station. The train slowed down, rocking the passengers as it rolled to a stop. Laiping could see crowds of people outside, flowing along the brightly lit platform like crosscurrents in a stream. Most of them seemed fashionably dressed, making Laiping self-conscious about the old T-shirt and baggy jeans she was wearing. She scanned desperately for Min as the conductor’s voice shouted out over the loudspeaker, ordering passengers to disembark.

  She grabbed the handle of the plastic zip bag containing her belongings and maneuvered her way toward the car door, bashing her knee against the hard corner of a large cardboard box sticking out into the aisle. It belonged to a man who was staying on the train. The man made no motion to move the box, or even to look her way. Fortunately, Laiping was tall for a girl and was able to step over it to join the press of people making their way out onto the platform.

  Soon Laiping was in the flow of the stream. From platform level, it was impossible for her to search the crowd for Min, so she allowed herself to be swept along with other people leaving the train in the hope that they knew where they were going. They inched their way through a wide doorway, bumping each other with bags and backpacks. The inside of the station was a vast hall. The swarm thinned a little as people went their separate ways, allowing Laiping to take in her surroundings. Everything was new and beautiful—sleek glass and steel. She noticed gweilo—Westerners—among those scurrying for trains. Foreigners were seldom seen in Laiping’s village, but Min said they were not uncommon here, less than an hour’s train ride from Hong Kong.

  Laiping saw signs giving directions. In addition to Chinese characters, there was writing that she took to be English. Even in Chinese, Laiping didn’t know the street names and had no idea which exit to take. A woman knocked her shoulder as she passed, reminding Laiping that she couldn’t stand there gawking forever. She felt panic rising. Where could Min be?

  “There you are!”

  Laiping heard Min’s shrill voice above the crowd and turned to see her pushing her way across the flow of people. Min was the opposite of Laiping in appearance—short and sturdy. She bulldozed her way to Laiping, a blunt force.

  “What are you standing there for?” she barked. “Here’s your first l
esson about life in the big city—you have to keep moving!”

  “I’m sorry. I was looking for you.”

  Min thrust her hand through the crook of Laiping’s arm and pulled her along.

  “Come on,” she said. “We need to catch another train.”

  Min held fast to Laiping’s arm as she guided her down a stairway to a different platform, this one with many tracks and many more people.

  “This is the subway,” Min explained over the squeal of trains stopping briefly to offload passengers and take on new ones. “This will take us to where I live.”

  A car glided to a halt in front of them. Doors opened. Min pushed Laiping inside while other passengers fought their way out. With no place to sit, the cousins found a corner where they could set Laiping’s bag down and within seconds the train was moving again, into a dark tunnel.

  “Where are the skyscrapers?” Laiping asked.

  Min pushed air through her teeth in a short burst. “Ai ya! Why do you think they call it a subway, you goose? We’re traveling underground!”

  I’m not a goose, thought Laiping, a little cross with Min’s bossing. I know we’re underground!

  “I mean,” she explained, “when will I get to see them?”

  “Not tonight. We are traveling away from downtown, to the campus.”

  “What do you mean, ‘campus’?” asked Laiping, disappointed.

  “I told you back home—the factory is like its own city. You’ll see.”

  With that Min fell silent. Laiping became aware that no one in the car spoke or even made eye contact. She noticed that her cousin was wearing eyeliner and lipstick, which she would never have done back home. She had on a short denim skirt and on her T-shirt there was a picture of a kitten wearing sparkly sunglasses. Laiping wasn’t sure she liked this look on Min. For one thing, her legs were short and a little plump. When their grandmother was alive, she used to say that Min would grow up to be a great brain, and Laiping would be a great beauty.

  Laiping glanced around to see that most of the girls her age were wearing makeup, plus pretty tops and sundresses that showed off their necks and arms. The guys wore tight jeans and T-shirts. It was how Laiping imagined people in Los Angeles or London might dress. She had been in Shenzhen for only fifteen minutes and already she had learned three lessons. The first was to keep moving. The second was to pretend you were alone, even in a crowd. The third was to dress the way people in magazines do.

  SOON, AS THEY CLIMBED THE STAIRS up from the subway station, Laiping saw for herself what a campus looked like. The rain had tapered off, but the air was still heavy and humid as she followed Min along a broad walkway, passing shops and restaurants full of chattering people. It was late—nearly midnight—but the tables were full, and guys and girls were waiting outside in long lines for their turn to go in. Everyone was young, in their teens or twenties.

  “When do they sleep?” asked Laiping. In their village, there was nothing to do in the evenings, so everyone went to bed early.

  “If you’re on the night shift, you sleep in the day,” explained Min. “The factories never stop. There is always someone working, and someone sleeping.”

  Further along, the walkway ended at a wide boulevard. They got caught in a crowd of people shuffling forward on the sidewalk to get onto a bus that had stopped, while just as many people were trying to get off. Laiping fought her way through, afraid of losing Min. Once they were past the crowd, Laiping could see that the boulevard was lined with huge white-tiled box-shaped buildings, much like the ones she had seen from the train on her way into Shenzhen. Each building was four or five storeys tall and as wide as several rice paddies.

  “Which one is the factory?” she asked.

  “They’re all factories,” Min replied. “The company has lots.”

  Laiping followed Min as she veered onto another walkway, and her face opened in delight.

  “Skyscrapers!” she proclaimed as a row of tall buildings came into view.

  “Those aren’t skyscrapers!” corrected Min. “They’re just the dormitories.”

  Min led Laiping into the lobby of the third dor-

  mitory and onto an elevator, explaining that this dorm was for women only. Laiping had never been on an elevator before. She experienced a thrill of fear each time it lurched to a stop at a floor to let people on and off, like a train car that went up and down instead of sideways. On the fifth floor, Min and Laiping got off and headed down a dark, narrow corridor. Every few steps there was a door. Every door was exactly the same, except for its sequential number. Min stopped at a door midway down the corridor and inserted a key card into a lock.

  “We have to be quiet when we go inside,” said Min, making her voice soft. “If someone complains that you stayed overnight, I’ll get fined.”

  Inside, a weak ceiling light revealed a narrow path flanked by walls. Once Laiping’s eyes adjusted, she saw that they weren’t walls at all, but bunk beds stacked from floor to ceiling, three to a section. Curtains were hung across each bunk for privacy. It wasn’t so different from home, where Laiping’s house was one large room, divided by curtains. The only difference was that, here, the curtained areas were stacked vertically. A couple of bunks toward the end of the row were lit up from within, creating enough spill that Laiping could discern a large window. Silently, Min took Laiping’s bag from her and placed it under the window, where several other bags and boxes were stored.

  Min cupped her hand over Laiping’s ear and told her, “The toilet is in there,” nodding toward a tiny cubicle to the left of the window. Laiping was impressed—back home, the toilet was an outhouse. Min climbed a ladder up to the third tier and crawled in behind a curtain. Laiping saw a light go on from inside Min’s bunk. Placing her foot on the bottom rung of the ladder, Laiping followed her cousin up. She pulled the curtain back slightly to find Min seated cross-legged on the narrow mattress, stooping so as not to hit her head on the ceiling.

  “Welcome home!” she whispered.

  ON MONDAY MORNING, as she did every weekday, Sylvie put on the white blouse and blue skirt of her school uniform and, leaving Lucie with Mama, walked with Olivier and Pascal to make sure they went to class. There were four high schools in Nyarugusu Refugee Camp. The one that Sylvie and Olivier attended was in a one-storey cinder block building consisting of two large rooms, one for the high school and the other for the primary grades, where Pascal went. The building was located in between the food distribution center and one of the camp’s medical clinics, where Sylvie had an after-school job.

  “It’s boring,” Olivier complained, as he so often did, as they walked the red dust track. “And the teachers know less than you do!”

  Secretly, Sylvie agreed with him. She had always been a good student, eager to make something of herself, but the teachers at Nyarugusu offered little inspiration. They were Congolese refugees who taught because the Tanzanians wouldn’t let them leave the camp to find better jobs. Sylvie herself taught math to the younger children, although she wasn’t paid for it at all, because the regular math teacher so often got the lessons wrong, and she wanted Pascal and the other children to have a decent start.

  Congolese refugees had been living in Nyarugusu for almost twenty years, but the Tanzanians didn’t want them in their country. Every day there were rumors that the Tanzanian officials were going to close Nyarugusu—just this year, they shut down the Nyarugusu market, where people used to make a little money selling vegetables they’d grown, or soap and candles they’d made. The Tanzanians wanted the Congolese to go back to their own country, across Lake Tanganyika, but there was still fighting there. Besides, Mai-Mai soldiers burned down the village where Sylvie’s family had lived, so, for them, there was no home to go back to. There was only Nyarugusu—until the Tanzanians shut it down. Then where would they go?

  “Papa would want us to get an education,” Sylvie told Olivier. She was certain that was what Papa would say if he were here. She tried not to dwell on the fact that bein
g educated hadn’t saved him. In fact, it may have cost him his life.

  Sylvie’s father was the teacher in their village school in North Kivu province. It was never a safe place, their village. Armed militias belonging to one group or another had come through many times, some of them raiding from the hilly forests along the border with the neighboring country of Rwanda. Others, like the Mai-Mai, were Congolese, sometimes working for the government, always working for themselves. Wherever they came from, they were all alike—taking what they wanted, burning homes, brutally raping girls and women—boys and men, too. And murdering those, like her father, who stood in their way. Coltan was what they were after—the blue-black nuggets of columbite-tantalite ore that was plentiful in the highlands surrounding their valley. Some people called it blue gold. Her father was helping the miners who eked out a living gathering coltan from the hillsides and panning for it in streams to file claims for their plots. Then the Mai-Mai came.

  Sylvie wasn’t at school that day. She had stayed home to help Mama with Pascal and with Lucie, who had just been born. But Olivier was there. He never talked about what he saw, just as Sylvie and Mama never talked about what happened to them when the Mai-Mai came into their house. At any rate, what more was there to say, except that the Mai-Mai found Sylvie’s father at the school, and they shot him? Then they set fire to the whole village, as a warning to other villages. Sylvie knew better than to ask Olivier, but she wondered sometimes what Papa’s last moments were like. He would have been brave, she was sure of that. He would have stood up for what was right and fair, because those were the things he believed in.

  But she tried not to think about her father’s death too often, because she would start imagining herself in his place, facing the soldiers’ rifles, feeling the bullets enter her body—making her heart pound so painfully and her breathing so tight that she feared she might actually die. Post-traumatic stress disorder is what the doctors at the clinic called it. Just about everyone in Nyarugusu suffered from PTSD, reliving in their minds and hearts and bodies the horrors that they’d been through back home.