The morning after the fight, Bai took Yan and Qinghe through the freight yard.
The depot stood at the far end of the yard, a long brick building with its windows painted over. Two guards stood at the gate. Behind the wall, a row of ceramic crates showed through a gap in the boards. Fresh cart tracks crossed the mud and vanished under the gate.
Yan looked from the crates to Bai. “Should I make a distraction?”
“No,” Bai said. “If we make noise, those parts might disappear before anyone can count them.”
“Then what are we doing?”
“Finding out who has the books.”
They waited by the freight office while carts entered and left. The guards checked each load against a paper slip but did not open the Registry depot. Yan watched a clerk carry requisition forms from the station office toward the gate. He wore an ink-stained sash and walked quickly, avoiding the puddles.
Bai recognized him. “That’s Ma. He sold me a batch of lamp oil last year.”
