Our cramped tour bus screeched to a halt in front of the shabby building. Instinctively I surveyed my surroundings while advancing out. Dirty and rundown, the orphanage stood, enveloped in heavy humidity. A faint smile danced on my face as I spotted wrinkled men amid a fog of cigar smoke eagerly wave their hands and rattle in Chinese. We passed through a doorway and mounted a flight of filthy stairs. Reaching the second story, we were warmly greeted by bubbling nannies, who instructed us to enter the orphans’ room a few at a time. I hastily prepared myself for a grimy sight. Hushed, I entered and found myself gawking, not at a filthy mess, but a sterile room -- tidy, scrubbed, and sanitary; my reflection sparkled on the tile floor. I gazed at masses of cage-like cribs, each occupied by a baby. Strangely, though, no sound reached my ears. A whimper, a giggle, anything would have been welcome. I only beheld blank stares, grave stares, lonely stares. My eyes hunted up and down the aisles of cribs. I waded through the infants, searching for one face. At last, I found it; I found her. Reaching to embrace my sister, I lifted a prayer of thanksgiving that she would escape an orphan’s fate.
