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“Ah, Lian-er!” Her aunt’s voice was bright. “How are you?”

“Good, good. I’m filming for another movie soon. Listen, I was wondering. Do you remember???? Do you remember him? I wanted to make a medicine brew. Do you know his number?”

Her aunt paused. Then her tongue clicked. “It’s no longer there, Lian-er.”

“The—apothecary?”

“There’s another one on Grant now. Mr. Siu passed away a few years ago. Stroke, I think. I remember him. We used to get cold medicine for the twins there, remember? Aiyah, he knew everything.”

“Yes, I remember,” Vivian said faintly. He had been old, even back then. It had been seven years since she saw him last. Nine years since he’d mentioned the story about his father working on the railroad. The stories, the history, her history—that was all gone now. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Do you need something from the new apothecary? I can ship it to you. Is something wrong?”

“No, nothing,” Vivian said hurriedly. She scrambled for an excuse. “My… husband is just having trouble sleeping. But that’s okay. He’s going to the doctor for it.”

“I can try to ask for him. And what about you? What about the girls?”

“We’re all right,” Vivian said. “No need to worry.”

“That’s good. They should visit San Francisco sometime.”

“Of course. We’ll try to find a time when we’re both off work. Maybe in the summer.”

“Great. Listen.” Her aunt’s voice caught slightly. “Remember Wu A-Yí? The woman who works at the market downstairs from our apartment?”

“Yes, I do.” She’d always given Vivian extra coconut bread for her daughters.

“Well, she’s going through a hard time right now. Her rent just went up. They’re evicting people all over San Francisco, Lian-er. She’s also paying for her daughter’s college and… is there any way you could help her out, do you think?”

There it was. A small bit of discomfort curdled in her stomach. “I… I’ll see what I can do. I have to ask my husband.”

There was a pause. “Okay. Okay.”

They hung up soon after and Vivian sat in silence. Every time she called her aunt there was always another of these requests. It was starting to grate on her. Maybe Richard was right.

She stared at her international phone cards. It occurred to her then that the person she really wanted to talk to about all of this was her husband. He was fast asleep now, and it would be the middle of the night over there. But she longed for his steadiness. She imagined them sitting on the living room couch. She could see his patient smile, the way he tilted his head to think of something to reassure her. He’d clasp her hand and rub the inside of her wrist with his thumb until she felt calmer.

But what could he say to—this? If he had reacted badly to Jeanette Lyman making a passing reference, how would he react if she brought up the ghosts of his past by name? Told him she’d found them in a book? What if she was the first to tell him about what Amos had done on the railroads? Did it even matter, now that nothing could be done to change it?

Her panic became a strange, sympathetic pain. Vivian couldn’t tell if she felt sorry for her husband, or angry that he had kept her in the dark. But what did she want him to do? Why did she feel like he needed to speak for his ancestors? Hadn’t he given her so much? He’d loved her and supported her in everything she did. His wealth had let her order decor and hire help without a second thought. They were rich enough that each of her daughters got a room to themselves. And here she was, anxious about ghosts and history.

Besides, her husband had loved her in spite of her past. How could she not do the same for him? How could she resent him for a past that he had no say in? He had protected her from this; he’d wanted to imagine a way forward, with her and with their daughters. Wasn’t that exactly what she had hoped for?

Vivian heard her cry out.

She was standing at the doorway and looking at the woman in her bed, who was hunched over, clutching her neck. The woman looked up through matted cords of hair and her dark eyes found Vivian’s.

It washer.Laura Dalby.

Bright, viscous blood spurted between the woman’s fingers. Her mouth twisted in pain. Blood bubbled through her teeth. Her lips moved and her chest heaved, but Vivian could only hear a strained, wet rasp.

Vivian finally started toward her. But before she could reach the woman, she felt something grab her by the shoulder and drag her back.

“Stop—” In her startled state only Mandarin came out. “She’sdying!”

Too late—it was all too late. She heard a hiss behind her and she turned, slowly, to see a stranger. He bared his teeth and looked straight at Vivian. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

Vivian scrambled awake, shivering in sweat, tangled in her own sheets. She leaped from her bed and stared at it. She circled it. The bed was different from the one in her dream. But the room—it was this room. The same bedroom she had dreamed of years ago when they’d moved in. The time she dreamed thatshewas the one bleeding out.