27

In the end, the manner of your approach doesn't matter. When you unfasten the tent flap and look inside, the man in there barely registers your presence.

He is young, really young, eighteen or nineteen at the most. He is sitting at the far end of the tent, wrapped in thick blankets, hugging his knees and rocking backward and forward incessantly as he sings his little song to himself.

His tent isn't as well insulated as yours. While it's better than being outside in the wind, it is still unconscionably cold in there.

You and Zhu crawl inside, and you decide how to approach him.

"Pretty song."

The man looks up. "Y-yes, he says in faltering English. "Pretty. Muti used to sing it when I was little. In H-Heidelberg. Y-yes, Heidelberg. That is—that is where I am from. So far away now."

"What is your name?" asks Zhu, his voice neutral.

"F-Florian, sir. Florian Schlegel."