Ou’s trade: supplying Western retailers with the cooking apparatus of patio parties and Fourth of July bashes. And there were grills: a small kettle grill on a desk, a brushed-steel gas grill on the far side of the room, grills stacked atop other grills. Ping golf clubs leaned against one wall a Rolling Stones commemorative electric guitar gathered dust behind a chair. A shopping-cart-size wooden frog stood sentry in the center of the room.

Framed awards and certificates covered the walls. I settled onto a plush leather couch and absorbed the decor.

At last a young man emerged from an office building. Drab, gray worker dormitories loomed nearby, and between them ran a dusty road that led to the factory.

Though the factory was teeming with workers, a Subaru SUV and BMW coupe were the only cars in the lot.

Ou, and he ran the sprawling factory in front of me, a jumble of offices, low-slung buildings, and warehouses. On a warm, sticky winter morning, I waited nervously in a parking lot in Foshan, a city in southeastern China’s smog-choked Pearl River delta, for a man I’d never met. Fight disinformation: Sign up for the free Mother Jones Daily newsletter and follow the news that matters.

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