I don’t remember my family name. No one believes they could forget something like that, but it’s true. Somewhere between Wei’s factory and the docks of Guangzhou it just slipped my mind. A girl once told me that the reason I ended up with this life was because my ancestors were angry at me for abandoning them, that all my problems would be miraculously solved if I could just remember that name. Fool. The first thing she told me when we met was that her name was Tan Ling, but I bet she’s still back in Nanning limping and begging for food. Fools stay where they belong.

   I do remember what they called me, though. Yu. It means jade, like the precious stone.  Precious enough to be bought by a child dealer, not quite valuable enough to raise as a daughter. Anyway, it was a stupid name. You’d never guess by the way people treat it, but jade really isn’t that great of a stone. I guess the white kind is sort of pretty, but the green stuff looks like something you’d scrape off a pond, and it isn’t even useful. The weight and hardness make it seem sturdy enough to build a skyscraper with, but drop it and it’ll shatter into pieces. Not like glass, though. That breaks into a million little pieces like a waterfall crashing into a shallow basin. Jade breaks cleanly into a few solid pieces. It’s as if someone drew lines on every piece of jade at the beginning of time to determine exactly where and when they will break.

   I managed to lift a jade statue of a woman holding a vase from a souvenir store in Liwan just the other day. It was the tacky sort of thing only a foreigner would buy, but after seeing its price tag I knew it could earn me some decent money no matter how much the shopkeeper exaggerated its worth. Sneaking it out under my jacket wasn’t hard, but before I could get back to the rooftop where I usually sleep, I tripped and fell on the pavement. There was a crack—not even a very loud one—and just like that, my money was gone.

   That’s why I’m on the train to Yuexiu today. All the oblivious foreigners in the pedestrian markets are great for pickpocketing, but Yuexiu is the best place in Guangzhou for someone like me. The downtown area draws a fair number of tourists in its own right, but unlike Liwan, the fringes of the district aren’t as heavily watched by the police. Seedier stores than the ones the government likes to advertise can be found hidden away on the back streets, and I know a pawnshop owner there by the name of Yao. He’s a pervy old man who usually gives good rates for the things I bring in, and he might know a place I could sell the pieces. Once when I’d gone two days without eating he gave me some dumplings—“because you remind me of my daughter,” he said—as if anyone that ugly could find a wife—and even if he gives me funny looks sometimes, he’s never tried to pull anything on me. It’s never a good idea to get your hopes up, but I have a hunch I can still get something useful out of all this.

   I get out at Taojin Station. There are still trees in this part of the city holding out against industrialization in small clusters. The Zhaoqing River can’t be seen from here, but I can sense it off toward the east. The name of the river has changed from Zuo to Yong to Zhaoqing as I’ve headed east over the years, but whether it was from the fields of my village or even  the old factory where Mr. Song kept us, I’ve always been able to see the water and know its direction in my head. Maybe someday it will sweep me all the way to the South China Sea and I’ll stow away on a ship to Malaysia or Australia or America. That would be something.

   I pass the occasional beggar as I walk down the street. They’re common enough in Guangzhou. Most of the locals won’t give you even a coin, but tourists will, and by giving money the loaded ones mark their wealth, making my life easier. Unfortunately the best places to beg are usually well-known, and the sight of so many leering faces tends to drive the foreigners away. This isn’t such a bad spot, though. The tourists aren’t as numerous as in other places, but neither is the competition.

   Most of the faces that look up at me turn away almost immediately. My clothes are clean enough for me to pass myself off as a normal girl when I choose to, but people like us know what signs to look for: eyes that never move but are always scanning, worn sneakers, a bag held with a deceptively tight grip. A few of the faces I see are even familiar from other times when I’ve gone to Yao’s. They’ve been here for years and are more a part of Guangzhou than any of the buildings.

   Not me, though. I’ve moved around ever since I got off the truck I stowed away on to get here, and I’ll never stop. You have to go to where the opportunities are. Anyway, I’ve seen some of the older beggars that still cling to life around here, and I’ll die before I end up like them. They hang about like broken toys left in the park and shiver in cardboard houses on the warmest of nights. They’re rice buckets, good only for holding food, just like everyone back in Nanning. While I may not have a lot now, I’m a hell of a lot better off than I used to be. Guangzhou probably won’t be the place, but some day in Hong Kong or Macao or wherever, I’ll find my chance at life. I’ll get what I deserve as long as I keep moving.