“She ladles for every soul at the Naihe Bridge, and the count is exact — it has been exact for ten thousand years. Except the junior attendant did the tally last month, twice, and came up one bowl short. One bowl, every night, poured for no soul in the line. Meng Po refilled the pot without comment. The stone by the bridge showed nothing. The stone shows everything.”
Meng Po's ladles never add up. One bowl a night goes unaccounted.



