On Yang Hongqi's third day in Rui Guo, he decided this contract had to be Heaven's way of making it up to him. The presidential palace wasn't big at all. It was just a three-story brick building, with old vines climbing its outer walls, like the country villa of a retired headmaster. Vegetables grew in the courtyard, not ornamental plants but the kind you could actually eat: radishes, potatoes, and a trellis of cucumbers, their vines climbing bamboo poles and yellow blossoms opening in the morning light without a care in the world. He walked around the wall once at six in the morning, then again at seven. After two laps, he was sure of one thing: this place didn't even have a decent stray dog. The presidential palace kept
