When he got back to the hotel,

Weng asked the porter to find him a dictionary.

“I don’t think we have one. We used to, but it’s gone now.”

“Never mind then,” Weng said turning,

but the porter held his arm gently.

“Why don’t you tell me the word, Mr. Fun, and I’ll look it up on
the Internet, print it out, then hand it to you silently so no one
has to know?”

Once back in his room, Weng read the character over and over:

爸爸 ba ba (he who uses an ax to cut wood to warm the home)

It didn’t say anything about blood,

and so Weng wondered if there was a chance

it could mean anyone.

Then he packed his bag,

Left an envelope with three Bunny Pops and ten thousand yuan
for the foot masseuse, and began the long journey back to Beijing.