The Aoquan police emblem shows the Lunar Wolf sitting under a wreath of hawthorn flowers with the full moon at his paws. It’s carved out of stone, and the wolf’s eyes are pupiless. Stories say he was blinded as a cub.

When I was little, I had nightmares of him chasing me down. Something about his gaze just says I know. But as I’m waiting in line at the capital’s checkpoint to pass security, the wolf is the only thing look at. Amidst the loud chatter of families going home after a weekend trip, truck drivers heading to the southern provinces, and across the exasperated yells of officers trying to keep things on schedule, he’s the only thing that feels familiar.

Uncle Ou leans in. He’s one of dad’s old college roommates, a family friend who I haven’t seen since I was very little. Ou is balding at the top of his round head, and tries to cover it with a comb over. His face reminds me of that one Japanese cartoon, the superhero who is filled with red-bean paste.

“Do your best to lay low,” he whispers.

If only lay low meant disappear.

We shuffle a few centimeters forward in line.

Lucas finally looks up from his phone. “What are they doing up there?”

Near the front, officers are picking out certain travellers and asking them to enter a room beneath the emblem. The travellers come out a few minutes later, collect their car keys, and move on to the luggage and vehicle retrieval center.

Uncle Ou hesitates before answering so Lucas pulls over an idle, youngish-looking security guard and asks him the same thing.

“It’s Ministry of Reincarnate Affairs,” says the guard. “Ever since the Zelkova killer, they’ve been enforcing stricter laws to find unregistered reincarnates.”