Once, in Beijing, a young girl in a red gown huddled in a doorway. She hugged her shoulders and shivered in the form fitting dress. Too little cloth and too much cold collaborated to goose-pimple her flesh.

The man on the bed behind her called her back. She waited as long as she could before she knew he'd start complaining, and then she turned. He told her what to do. She did it. What choice did she have?

Later that evening, the Madam demanded the money she'd collected that evening. The girl pulled up the straps of her dress. "Yes, mother," she said and handed her the cash.