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handle. The boy’s lips parted; he wobbled, then dropped to the floor. The other kitchen boys pried the money from his fist and dragged him away, his pants around his ankles, his eyelashes fluttering. It was done and Omar would not think of it again.
    After Omar returned home from dinner, he had one of his men fetch his grandson, who was sitting on a crate outside a restaurant down the street, watching the world go by. Anwher was twenty-five, uncomfortable in his own skin. His sharp cheekbones launched straight out from his deep eye sockets like a pair of cliffs, and, like most young men, he spent the bulk of his time cultivating an air of internal discord, which made him look superficially haunted.
    â€œBoss wants you,” Omar’s minion said.
    â€œHe can wait,” said Anwher.
    The thick-necked goon stayed where he was, silently exuding thuggish authority.
    â€œFine,” Anwher said. Without a word, they started back toward the house. Anwher studied the man’s gait with an almost scientific attention to the roll of his massive shoulders. No one stood in their way, and before long they were at Omar’s house.
    The man stopped at the door and stepped to the side. Anwher went in and sat on the floor by a low table.
    Omar sat drinking his tea for a while, sizing up the boy.
    â€œSo?” Omar said.
    â€œSo what?” Anwher said.
    â€œBusy out there tonight.”
    Anwher nodded and took a cup of tea.
    Omar sighed. He considered himself an able communicator, but the boy was impossible to talk to. He was lazy as a rug and responded to neither reason nor violence. What once had been a gap between them had become a canyon.
    â€œIt’s hopping,” Anwher offered. “A human farm. Eat, shit, screw. All day, all night.”
    â€œPerhaps if you did something besides sit on your ass all day, you’d have a different take on things,” Omar said.
    Anwher set down his cup and made moves to leave, but Omar held up his hand.
    â€œYou have a point,” Omar said. “But you might show a little respect for your home.”
    â€œÃœrümqi is my home.”
    â€œThis again,” Omar said.
    â€œAlways. Don’t act surprised,” Anwher said. “I’ll go like a ghost in the night.”
    â€œYou should write that down,” Omar said. “Hand me the smoke.” He slowly brought an unlit pipe to his lips and blew through it, moving with the measured patience of a man who routinely found himself talking to people too stupid to come around to his point of view. Anwher dropped a leather pouch into his grandfather’s palm.
    â€œAnd what will happen to the business when you go?” Omar asked.
    â€œMaybe this stomach ulcer will clear up, is what will happen. I can’t believe I’ve lasted this long. If I had any sense I would have bugged out years ago.”
    Anwher looked out the top of his head when he said this, gauging his grandfather’s reaction as best he could without making eye contact. He was ready to run, but Omar said nothing. Then the old man motioned for a knife.
    Anwher pulled one from his pocket, snapped it open, and with a flourish presented the handle.
    â€œWhere’s yours?” Anwher asked.
    â€œLeft it at a restaurant,” Omar said. He gouged at the pipe with Anwher’s knife, the blade rasping against the bowl. “This pipe is a piece of junk.”
    â€œIt’s fine.”
    â€œReally? Look at this. It’s clogged solid. What am I supposed to do with this?” Omar paused to stab at it some more. “What to do? Cleaning it properly will destroy it. You see what I’m saying?”
    â€œYeah, I see.”
    â€œÃœrümqi’s not the way you remember it,” Omar said.
    â€œIt’s not the way you remember it, either.”
    â€œNo Uyghurs left there, you know,” Omar said. “It’s slope city now. They turned all the Uyghurs into Chinese. You have to cut them