Canton at night is as much China as the border town of Lan-Chow-fu. John sat pensively in the back of his best friend's mother's minivan, piloted by his best friend Mark. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. He was a large oafish man, a man that seemed deceptively harmless, and some thought him slightly retarded. Yet there was nothing for her to do.
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