The following year, Yeongin began looking for a new job.

She interviewed with a company that sourced fabric and materials from Korea and China, then shipped them to Vietnam, where it manufactured clothing for global retail brands. She took the elevator up to the twelfth floor. When the doors opened, a long, wide hallway stretched ahead, lined with large doors on either side. Some resembled apartment doors, while others were fitted with wrought iron grilles or made of glass lit by neon signs. Boratec, Dozen, Unico, Cox—it was difficult to tell by the company names alone what any of them did.

When Yeongin came to the right number, she knocked on the glass double doors and stepped inside. A man introduced himself as Manager Kim. He seemed lively, curious, and slightly belligerent, and had bloodshot eyes. He led her into the sample room and pointed to the clothes hanging on the wall: anorak jumpers, jumpsuits, shirtdresses, golf skirts, padded jackets. We made these, he said.

He explained that until now, the office had been run by just three people: himself, Manager Ham, and Section Chief Jung—all in sales. The Korean CEO was based in Hanoi, where he appointed a Vietnamese representative to handle local affairs while he himself focused on sales, operating under the title of managing director and running two factories. The smaller Korean office handled domestic contracts and accounting. Up until last year, the sales team had managed everything on their own, but it had become too much, so now they were hiring an admin.

Manager Kim noted that with her background at a confectionery company, Yeongin would catch on quickly. He asked if she’d be able to communicate with the Vietnamese staff in English. When she said it wouldn’t be an issue, he led her out of the sample room to show her the workspace: four desks with no partitions, one of which was vacant. At the center of the room stood a large table for inspecting fabric and samples. Three days later, Yeongin started working at that office. She took the empty desk.

Yeongin took an old cup she’d found in the corner of the office, filled it with water, and slowly poured it into the ZZ plant pot. She’d never seen a money plant so large. Placed right at the entrance in front of a partition bearing the company name in Korean, its leaves spread out like a giant fan. It was as tall as she was. Its leaves were dark and glossy, not a single one wilted, yet in the four months she’d been with the company she hadn’t seen anyone water it.

She rinsed the cup at the officetel kitchenette and set it beside the grimy coffee maker that Manager Kim used each morning. Without addressing anyone in particular, she said to the others in the office, I just watered the ZZ plant. You won’t need to for a while.

ZZ plant? We have one of those? Manager Kim asked, standing up and rubbing his face. He craned his neck in the direction she pointed, then walked over to look. Section Chief Jung, who’d been staring at his monitor, got up to join him.

It’s right here. 

So it’s been here the whole time, Jung said.

Manager Kim explained the plant had been a gift from a client about two years earlier. I guess it’s been here all along, he echoed.

When Yeongin asked who had been watering it, both men looked at each other, baffled. Neither had known it was there, so who could have?

At lunch, Yeongin went downstairs with Manager Ham, thinking two things. First, how had such a massive ZZ plant survived for two years, apparently unnoticed and without a drop of water? Second, how had three people managed the workload alone until now, when the four of them could barely keep up?

That morning, as soon as the morning meeting ended, Manager Kim and Section Chief Jung had gone off site—one to a client, the other to a warehouse—and would likely miss lunch altogether. Just another ordinary day.

During her first couple of months at the company, Yeongin had been so busy she barely had time to think. She was responsible for managing payments and the complicated logistics. Some cargo had to go from China to Korea, then to Vietnam. Others could be shipped directly from China to Vietnam. Still others, starting in Vietnam, had to pass through Seoul, be split up and delivered to Hoengseong and Hwanggan for buyer confirmation, then return to Vietnam via Seoul. Most shipments traveled by sea, which meant they were at the mercy of ocean weather. Yeongin loaded goods onto ships docked at ports where she’d never been, then waited for those ships she’d never seen to cross the ocean.

Sometimes, typhoons would delay vessels at port. And there would often be accidents: thread or zipper colors didn’t match the samples; inner pockets were poorly stitched; jackets were finished with even the outer pockets sewn shut; the bias tape was a bit crooked; finished leather jackets gave off a foul odor. One shipment that needed to go from China to Vietnam via Korea by Thursday still hadn’t reached Seoul by Tuesday. Another—heavy fabric that should have gone straight from China to Vietnam—arrived in Seoul by air. Once, cargo was mixed up at a Vietnamese port, and instead of boxes of

leggings, they received flame-resistant gloves. That very morning, Yeongin learned the missing leggings shipment was now en route across the Pacific to the Port of Los Angeles.

Manager Ham scooped hot bean sprout soup into a small bowl which contained a soft-boiled egg.

Sewing is the hardest part of garment production, he said.

Really?

So many suppliers are involved that if one thing goes wrong, it sets off a chain reaction. And just because we work hard here doesn’t mean things go smoothly. There’s always something beyond our control. One thing leads to another, one problem leads to the next. It’s always like that. Even after we’ve done our part, we still get called back to handle complaints. There’s no such thing as ‘done’ in this business. I’ve been doing this for twenty-five years, and not once have I felt, ‘Ah, I’m finally done.’

It really drains you, he added, pouring some radish kimchi into the soup and shoving a spoonful into his mouth. He crunched loudly. So, Yeongin, why did you leave your last job again?

Yeongin stared at the washing machine as it neared the end of its first rinse cycle. The laundry, unable to withstand the speed, clung to the drum as it spun. When the rinse cycle ended, water began to fill the drum again. The wet clothes, still mixed with soap suds, started to whirl. With each turn of the drum, bubbles slid down the glass door, and the laundry tumbled from top to bottom.

In the sunlight slanting into the laundromat, Yeongin noticed the mess of handprints on the washer door. They looked like the traces of a desperate ghost, groping for some­thing. 

A woman entered, carrying laundry in a tarpaulin bag. She glanced at Yeongin, then pulled out two pillows and two cases from the bulging bag, loaded them into a machine, tapped the kiosk buttons, and stepped outside to light a cigarette, leaving the bag wide open on the table. Her curly hair caught the light, glinting copper. 

Yeongin unlocked her phone and checked Inbeom’s social media. Her eyes landed on a photo taken on a clear day along a main road. Inbeom was among a group of protestors walking past a row of ginkgo trees. The camera was aimed at the flags and flagpoles above, each bearing a different banner, so only the top of a hat was visible at the bottom of the frame. Yeongin recognized it as Inbeom’s.

In the next photo was Inbeom’s face, shot from above. Yeongin studied the image. Inbeom had pulled her hat low, revealing only the tip of her nose and mouth. The caption read: #258. There were five comments. Two came from ad accounts. One was a standard message of support. Another mocked: All the democracy folks, the woke, the disabled, the queers—soon as the sun’s out, they all crawl out. One comment pointed out Inbeom’s braless chest: omg you can totally see her nipples lol.

Inbeom had only replied to that last one. Yeongin reread her words, though she’d read them many times before. Take a good look, you dickhead. That was her last post—two months earlier.

Yeongin opened the washer door and pulled out the clumped laundry, shaking it loose. According to Manager Ham, the terry cloth beach ponchos had been delivered two years ago. The retailer had filed a complaint now, claiming color transfer had occurred while the stock sat in a warehouse.

But it’s been two years! Manager Kim shrieked after hanging up the phone. Scrubbing his face with both hands, he turned to Yeongin.

Once they arrive, let’s run them through the washer, he said. Just a basic wash. Don’t use the dryer, though. The fabric might shrink.

After inspecting the wet ponchos, flipping them inside out and back again to check their condition, Yeongin gathered the bundle in her arms and left the laundromat. Even as she walked across the short crosswalk, sweat trickled down her back.

The elevator to the twelfth floor was crowded. Young people heading up to the thirteenth sipped iced coffees from plastic cups and joked with one another, bursting into laughter. Their voices were so loud and sharp they seemed to be attacking each other. Yeongin often ran into them in the elevator, but she had no idea what they did for work.

How is it? Are the stains coming out? Manager Kim asked as soon as she stepped into the office.

Yeongin nodded. Yup, they’re all gone.

Relieved, he glanced at the four boxes stacked near the entrance. Inside were forty-eight ponchos, divided evenly among the boxes.

From that day on, Yeongin shuttled between the office and the laundromat with the ponchos. She waited for each wash cycle to finish, then brought the wet ponchos back to the office to dry them. There wasn’t enough space to hang all the laundry at once, so she had to wash the forty-eight ponchos over several days. Though September was almost over, the heat was relentless. Every time she crossed the street on her way to the laundromat, she inhaled the hot air and was startled to realize it was the same temperature as the human body. Outside, it was hot and humid, but inside, the office was so cold she wore a cardigan. They couldn’t turn off the AC—if only for the sake of the laundry.

A message came in from Vietnam: the rainy season had begun. What was worse, this year’s rain was unusually frequent, making it difficult to manage the fabric. Before she took the ponchos to the laundromat, Yeongin carefully removed the tags using embroidery scissors and a needle, then reattached them after the ponchos dried. While waiting for the machine to finish, she checked Inbeom’s social media. There were no updates. She stared at the top of Inbeom’s head, just visible beneath the cluster of colorful flags, then slipped her phone back into her pocket.

It had been over a year since Yeongin last had any contact with Inbeom. She counted the months, recalling their last meeting. They’d both been busy with work and hadn’t seen each other for a while. They decided to meet in Mangwon-dong in Seoul, a place everyone seemed to go, and ate at a small restaurant.

Inbeom looked worn out. Her hair was unkempt, tied loosely at the nape of her neck, and she gave off a musty laundry smell she didn’t seem to be aware of. Mid-meal, Yeongin opened a shopping app and ordered a high-performance laundry detergent, shipping it to Inbeom’s address. When she showed Inbeom the order screen, telling her to mix it into her wash, Inbeom said flatly, Don’t use that app. That company kills people.

Okay, okay, Yeongin said with a nod, spooning some fried rice into her mouth. The food was salty and sweet, so she kept reaching for her water.

After the meal, they went to a nearby café—an old two-story Western-style house converted into a coffee shop with a spacious yard. They climbed the stairs from the yard to the second floor and found seats in what must have once been someone’s bedroom. There were four small tables, just big enough for two people to sit face-to-face. A zelkova tree extended its branches toward the large window overlooking the yard, and Yeongin made Inbeom take that seat.

Sit by the tree. Look at it.

Inbeom stretched her legs out comfortably. Over coffee served with cinnamon sticks as stirrers, they talked about ordinary things. Food, health, work. Cruel stories Inbeom had come across recently. Elderly men asking students at the Wednesday protests against Japanese wartime sexual slavery if they were there to learn how to become prostitutes. A mother, hoping to get her son nominated for office, shouting through a megaphone in front of parents who had lost their children in a tragedy. Stories so cruel they felt unreal. Yeongin didn’t want to understand them—she didn’t think she could, and she didn’t want to dwell on them either, so she changed the subject to work, where she was living, where she used to live, their childhoods, news about relatives who had emigrated to the US, elections in some foreign country. Then, when the word “war” came up, Inbeom’s tone shifted.

Why do you call it a war? she said to Yeongin. It’s not war. It’s genocide. As of yesterday, eighty thousand tons of bombs have been dropped there. Eighty thousand tons, on a strip of land that small. How could those bombs tell the difference between soldiers and civilians, between children and adults? How can you call that a war?

Yeongin listened half-heartedly. Yes, yes, you’re right.

Inbeom was always outraged about something. Her concerns were countless—too many for Yeongin to grasp. Those awful people weren’t Yeongin. And words like “war” and “genocide” belonged to a time and place too far away. She nodded, changed the subject, and the conversation carried on.

Later, Yeongin would replay that moment again and again—the moment when she thought they had moved on and Inbeom thought they hadn’t. Inbeom believed they were talking about the same thing, and Yeongin believed they had finished talking about it and were onto something else. They exchanged a few more words. When they both realized what had happened, they looked at each other. Inbeom nodded slowly, and Yeongin gave a bitter smile.

A crow landed in the zelkova tree. The crow, with a large beak and gleaming black feathers, turned its head, scanned the area, then flew off again. Yeongin watched it. When she turned back, Inbeom was quietly staring into her coffee. The cinnamon stick teetered on the edge of the saucer. She fumbled with the cup, scratched her nose with her index finger, and said, Eonni.

Her tone was the same as always, but Yeongin noticed that her fingers were trembling.

These days . . . Inbeom began, then cleared her throat. She took a deep breath, as if the words were difficult, then slowly exhaled and looked at Yeongin. When the silence stretched on, Yeongin blinked in surprise, waiting for her to continue. Tears welled in Inbeom’s eyes but dried before they could fall.

It’s hard to talk to people lately, Inbeom said. There are things that matter to me. I think they should matter to other people too, so I bring them up. But when I do, they become trivial. They become nothing as I talk about them.

Then people look at me like, Why are you still going on about that? Or they give me this look like, Why bring that up now? Like they’re annoyed or feel sorry for me. That’s when I realize, they don’t care. Not at all. These things that mean so much to me, they mean nothing to them. I see it.

And you don’t know how much that’s killing me.

Killing you?

Yeongin thought about what Inbeom had said. She thought about it when she was alone, or alone in a crowd. As if quietly asking herself or shouting into the wind. When she sat on the edge of her bed, struggling to wake up. When she stepped into the bathroom in the morning and gazed into the mirror streaked with toothpaste foam. When she splashed cold water on her face until it went numb. When she stood in the subway on her way to work, packed in tight, her shoulders and hips pressing into strangers. When she handed over her meal ticket at the cafeteria that served the same menu day in, day out. When she sat behind her partition, lips clamped shut, the taste of garlic and chili pepper lingering no matter how much she brushed her teeth. When she stuck and removed memo notes, trying to re-prioritize tasks that had to be done today or maybe tomorrow at the latest. When she opened her desk drawer and stared at the clutter, trying to remember what she was looking for. When she stared at the smeared handprints on the subway door on her way home.

Killing you?

Why go that far? Why say something like that?

Since that day, Inbeom hadn’t reached out, and neither had Yeongin. She was tired of everything about Inbeom, but still checked her socials now and then. New posts showed up every seven to ten days. Not about where Inbeom was or what she did or was doing. Just announcements of what had happened in a certain place, what was going to happen. She often added hashtags like #massacre, #colonialist, #genocide, #colonialism.

About a month after they’d stopped talking, Yeongin came across a flyer on Inbeom’s page. Under the question “Still fresh and sweet?” was the caption: “Strawberries, peaches, grapefruits grown on land soaked in occupation and massacre.”* The post included images of beverages distributed in South Korea, and among them, a children’s drink and a peach-flavored beverage made and sold by the company where Yeongin worked.

 * “Under the question ‘Still fresh and sweet?’ was the caption: ‘Strawberries, peaches, grapefruits grown on land soaked in occu­pation and massacre.’” 

—From a BDS Mart pamphlet produced by Palestine Peace Solidarity

Hunched over at her desk, Yeongin read the flyer from start to finish. She read it again, with a tightness in her chest. In a strained attempt at polite, friendly language, the flyer explained how Israeli forces were stealing water and fruit trees from Palestinian farmland, and how people were being injured and killed on the very land where those trees had grown. As she read, Yeongin pictured Inbeom’s parched, vacant face staring at her.

You don’t know my life either. You don’t know what I have to do or what I have to put up with. Don’t take it out on me. She wrote messages like that to Inbeom, then deleted them.

When the mix of worry and resentment became too much, she couldn’t help herself and wrote: You’re not going to die because of those things. You can’t die because of them. They can’t kill you. Because they happened to someone else. Because they didn’t even happen to you.

She wrote the words in the message box and read them over and over again. Then she pressed X and deleted everything, afraid her finger might hit send.

One day, Yeongin saw a short video on Inbeom’s page. The camera moved toward a collapsed building. Between slabs of concrete, children’s feet in small shoes stuck out. Ten pairs, maybe more. Yeongin began to count but lost track. The short legs were dull gray, coated in cement dust.

The second video showed another collapsed building. A body hung limp, impaled on a piece of rebar that was jutting up toward the sky.

On another day, on a different account, she saw people kneeling in the rubble, brushing dust from the ground with their hands. A pale face slowly emerged, just the forehead, eyes shut. Blood, mixed with cement dust, had crusted into a dirty black on his head. In the next video, people screamed and ran down a hospital corridor. In another one, an older woman and a younger one screamed outside a building after hearing someone’s name. A man rubbed his stubbled face as he sobbed.

At first, Yeongin tried to understand what had happened. She watched the short clips again and again, trying to piece everything together. But soon she began drifting through the videos. Whenever she logged on to visit Inbeom’s page, her own feed was flooded with jerky, truncated clips. Videos made by strangers, from places she didn’t know, chosen by people she didn’t know. She hadn’t searched for them, hadn’t expected them, but still, every time, she clicked on one and slipped into another. That’s how she watched coastlines being swallowed by tornadoes and tsunamis. Soldiers struggling to recover something from a rocky shore with sticks. A port city exploding, edited with dubbed sirens. A plane crashing into a runway in slow motion, with the caption “FAKE, FAKE, FAKE” blinking across the screen. A slow-motion shot of something being crushed inside an industrial shredder, overlaid with screams and groans. And even a nighttime street scene with a warning to “watch to the end,” though nothing much happened.

Yeongin ultimately arrived at videos where what you saw and what you heard didn’t match. People kneaded dough while lamenting exam results. Calm voices talked about being hurt by a boss, coworkers, professors, friends, family, neighbors, while chopping potatoes on a cutting board. There were people who made and uploaded such videos. Yeongin watched them before falling asleep. Videos that left her confused because the visuals didn’t match the audio. Videos that reassured her because she didn’t have to focus on either. Sounds that easily faded into the background and helped her sleep.

Yeongin, could you come here for a minute?

She was flustered when Manager Yoon called her over to his desk and pointed at the monitor.

It was her email correspondence with a client. It was an email she had sent, with several people, including Manager Yoon, copied. She couldn’t understand why he was bringing it up. As she stood there, confused, Yoon told her to read it.

No, no, just read what you wrote. Just the part you wrote.

He pushed a few printouts toward her. They were emails Yeongin had written over the past two weeks. Do you think the person reading this would understand what you’re trying to say? he asked.

Yeongin hadn’t noticed a problem, but reading them over again, she saw they were a bit hard to follow. Sometimes the word order was inverted, and a few sentences lacked a subject or object. But whether the reader would understand or not, Yeongin couldn’t say.

As she stood there, pale, he tapped his desk with his index finger, watching her. What exactly is the problem?

Yeongin opened her umbrella and stepped into the rain. The wind made it hard to keep it steady. The umbrella, stretched taut against the gusts, bent under the pressure. Her shoes and pant hems were still damp from her morning commute, and now her feet were soaked again. She pulled the umbrella closer and kept walking. She needed to stop by the eye clinic before her lunch break ended and get back to the office.

She crossed to the building opposite her office and waited on a dark-upholstered couch. In the exam room, she rested her chin and forehead on the slit lamp and stared into the light as the doctor instructed. A bright beam passed through her eyes. The doctor stepped back, stuffed a fist in his coat pocket, and turned to the monitor. He asked her if she worked somewhere dry and dusty. Then he told her she had micro-abrasions, and they were making her eyes sting.

With a prescription for artificial tears and anti-inflammatory drops, Yeongin crossed the rain-soaked street to return to work. The rain had gotten heavier in just a short time, and even under the umbrella, she got wet. When she stepped back into the office, wiping her face with her hand, Manager Ham, who’d stayed behind for lunch, turned to look.

What a mess out there, he muttered.

The rain kept coming. A period between summer and autumn. A record-breaking storm was sweeping through East Asia, and in Korea, it was the heaviest rainfall in 117 years.

News reports showed landslides and flooding in low-lying areas, with homes, streets, farms, and orchards underwater. Yeongin stood by the window next to Manager Ham, peering down as if over a cliff. But there was nothing to see. Just sheets of rain cascading down the glass like a waterfall.

The day before, a message had come from the factory in Hanoi, saying they were evacuating. The Red River, which starts in China and runs through Vietnam, was close to overflowing, and authorities had issued an evacuation order. It had been pouring for days in both countries, and when the Chinese opened their dams to relieve pressure, the Red River surged. The factory, located near the river, evacuated nearly two hundred workers. Not long after, word came that the typhoon heading for the Gulf of Tonkin had intensified. Both Manager Ham and Manager Kim looked grim, saying if the factory flooded, they’d miss multiple delivery deadlines, even after the rain stopped.

You okay?

The night before, Yeongin had posted a message in the Zalo group chat for the first time. Everyone who normally emailed or messaged in English was there. Linh, Trang, Robert, Ngoc Uoc—everyone okay?

I’m fine.

I’m home, but my window broke.

Hanging in there.

I’m okay.

For now.

In the dark, Yeongin read the replies while listening to the wind rattle the windows. Rain pelted the glass like someone throwing handfuls of rice.

By morning, the evacuation order had been lifted. The factory had avoided flooding, but logistics in Hanoi had ground to a halt. Deliveries had to be postponed. Manager Kim and Section Chief Jung left early that morning to meet with buyers.

In the Korean staff group chat, someone posted a few photos with the caption: On the way to the factory. Uprooted roadside trees lay toppled across the asphalt, roots clinging to red soil. Crushed signs, broken branches, torn scraps of siding were strewn across the wet streets. The last post was a dashcam video about two minutes long. A bulldog figurine bobbed its head on a dusty dashboard, and a rosary swung from the rearview mirror.

A truck loaded with coiled wire drove ahead, with several motorcycles in front and behind it. Then it happened, as the car moved slowly along the typhoon-ravaged road and approached the bridge.

The truss bridge, suspended between a gray sky and the murky river, began to sink at the center. So slowly, so silently, it seemed as if nothing was happening. Like a sandcastle quietly collapsing. The ground just disappeared, as if the other side hadn’t fallen but rather this side had lifted. The truck and motorcycles that had entered the bridge only seconds before vanished, as if they’d slipped over a crest.

The video cut off just as one motorcycle, moments away from falling in, hesitated and began to reverse. Manager Kim, still out on business, commented beneath the video: That’s why you never go near the river when the water’s up.

Yeongin tilted her head back, dropped in the anti-inflammatory drops near her tear ducts, and closed her eyes. A dull ache spread behind her eyes before fading.

You know how it poured like crazy yesterday? Manager Kim said, sounding glum. He was back from his meetings, biting into a roll of kimbap wrapped in foil. He said he hadn’t eaten lunch yet, though it was nearly dinnertime.

Even in that downpour, I drove all the way to Hwanggan to meet the buyer. While I was at it, I handed over a million won in gift certificates. Then, on the way back to Seoul, the rain started coming down real hard. Suddenly I got scared. Had a few close calls on the road. Somehow made it to Seoul, but I couldn’t go home. So I ended up coming back here instead. I was sitting alone in the office, exhausted, and I don’t know, I just started tearing up. I felt so alone. I asked myself, why the hell am I doing this?

Yeongin watched the tears well up in his eyes. He kept chewing, cheeks puffed out with kimbap, lost in thought.

In the sample room, Section Chief Jung was on the phone, head bowed, talking to a client.

When Manager Kim finished eating, he balled up the foil and tossed it toward the trash. Alright, alright, he said, slapping both cheeks before opening his eyes wide. It was 5:30 p.m. With the Vietnam office and factory shut down, there wasn’t anything Yeongin could do. She slipped off her slippers and put her feet into her wet shoes.

I’m heading out. See you Monday.

Manager Ham, who usually worked late on Fridays, stood and said he was going to grab a coffee. He followed her out.

Standing beside him at the elevator, Yeongin pressed the button and waited. The elevator lingered on the thirteenth floor for a long time before finally descending. When the doors opened, laughter erupted. There was no room to squeeze in among the people who’d just burst into laughter.

Let’s catch the next one, Manager Ham said. He sent the elevator down before hitting the button again. That thirteenth floor—I think it’s a pyramid scheme.

When Yeongin asked how he could tell, he replied, Young people, moving in herds, eyes all lit up. What else could it be but a cult or MLM?

At home, Yeongin opened the fridge and took out some frozen rice. The plastic container cracked loudly in her hand. She covered it with cling wrap and put it in the microwave. While she waited, she checked Inbeom’s page for any new posts. Where had Inbeom been last night? What had she thought about, listening to the rain?

That night, Yeongin had a dream. She was speeding down a windy street on a motorcycle. Broken branches from yellow flame trees, torn khaya leaves, cold rain hitting her forehead and eyes. Tears streamed as she rode. She felt her body tilt as the ground slipped out from under her—slowly, starting from the front wheel, sliding, sliding without end. On and on the wheel tilted, until it tapped her forehead as she lay in bed, and she opened her eyes.

It was so dark she couldn’t tell the time. Still lying down, she touched her forehead, then fumbled for her phone. She checked the time, pressed the phone to her chest, then dialed Inbeom.

After a few rings, Inbeom answered. Mmm, she said. Eonni. 

Hearing her voice, Yeongin held her breath. Where was she? There was barely any background noise. She didn’t sound like she was out.

Yeongin listened to the silence, then hung up. She closed her aching eyes and drifted back to sleep.

She woke to the sound of rain on her umbrella. In the dim room, she saw a figure standing.

I’m turning on the light, Inbeom said, before Yeongin had a chance to react.

Yeongin kept her eyes closed until they adjusted to the brightness. When she opened them, Inbeom was standing by the light switch, looking down at her, a plastic bag stretched taut in her hand, heavy with something. As Yeongin lay there, blinking, Inbeom asked, You sick?

Yeongin said no.

What the heck? Inbeom let out a sigh, shoulders slumping. Why’d you hang up without saying anything?

Inbeom shuffled into the kitchen, muttering that Yeongin had scared her. Then she moved back and forth between the kitchen and bathroom, asking if Yeongin had a large bowl or basin. There was a clatter of dishes, the smell of rain and outside air.

Is it still raining?

It stopped.

Inbeom brought over the large mixing bowl Yeongin used for kneading dough and set it on the floor beside her. Inside, a few small grayish-brown fish swam in murky water.

They’re guppies, she said. Someone gave them to me, but they keep multiplying. I don’t know what to do anymore.

Yeongin watched the fish circle the bowl, their fins brushing the bottom, and dipped her index finger into the water. The fish darted to the edge. There were five. The water was slippery but not too cold. Inbeom told her she’d left a basin of tap water in the bathroom and to let it sit a day or two before transferring the fish. The chlorine has to evaporate and the cold needs to go. I brought food too.

Yeongin glanced at Inbeom, who was watching the fish, and looked back at the guppies.

I guess I’ll need an aquarium.

Yeah. And if you can, get an air pump.

Yeongin asked if she remembered the guppies they’d had as kids. The aquarium seemed big, but maybe that was just because we were small. To keep the adult guppies from eating the fry, we’d put an isolation box inside the tank, but one night the water level dropped so low that all the babies died. When I woke up, they were stuck to the sides of the box, all dried out. Can that really happen in one night? Do you remember? Did you see it?

Of course I remember. I stood next to you crying.

I thought I imagined it. I mean, how could something like that happen overnight?

Maybe there were too many fish all of a sudden and there wasn’t enough air.

Maybe.

Yeah, there were so many baby fish.

Did the rain stop?

It has now.

Yeongin asked if Inbeom wanted a pillow, if she wanted to sleep a bit. Inbeom shook her head. Yeongin shut her mouth and waited. It was a strange hour—too late to go back to sleep, too early to eat or start the day. She felt uneasy, afraid that Inbeom might get up and leave at any moment.

If you didn’t, if you could give me a little more time, I might ask how you’ve been, how work is going, Yeongin thought. And maybe you’d say it’s not great, that it’s getting better, or that it’s just okay. And I’d say, Oh really? And maybe later, I could say I’m sorry. Maybe later. A little later.

The sun will rise soon, Inbeom said, still looking toward the dark window.

Yeongin was startled, as if Inbeom had replied to something she hadn’t said aloud. She thought: What do you mean, Inbeom? Why would you say something so obvious, like it’s a lie?

Are you serious?

What? Inbeom frowned, squinting at Yeongin. Why would I need to be serious about the sun rising?

In a couple of hours, it’ll come up, Inbeom said. Let’s go watch it together.

Before leaving the house, Yeongin took two apples from the fridge. She asked Inbeom whether she should feed the guppies, and Inbeom said it should be fine since they’d be back soon, but then changed her mind and said she might as well feed them, just in case. Yeongin wrapped the apples in paper napkins, slipped them into the pocket of her windbreaker, grabbed a water bottle, and followed Inbeom out.

The small used car Inbeom had bought five years before was parked down the street. When she opened the passenger door, a maple leaf wedged in the frame landed on Yeongin’s foot. She placed her feet on the mud-stained floor mat and fastened her seatbelt. Inbeom’s fingertips on the steering wheel were stained yellow and black, likely from conté crayon or charcoal. Inbeom had always drawn with conté.

Yeongin didn’t know much about Inbeom’s art. Once, she’d received a drawing of a cotton plant on kraft paper. She’d framed it and hung it on her wall. But a leak from the upstairs unit had soaked the wall, and mold bloomed around the frame. That was a long time ago.

What she remembered more clearly were the drawings Inbeom made as a kid. Comic strips in lined notebooks. One was about a girl with impossibly long, yarn-like legs that she kept coiled up under her skirt. When people mocked her for having short legs, she’d undo the ribbon tying them up and shoot up into the air, cackling. Is this better? Does this look better to you? she’d ask.

Yeongin had liked that one especially. When Inbeom threw the notebook away, saying it was nothing, Yeongin rescued it and tucked it between the pages of a photo album. She’d been in high school then, and Inbeom in middle school.

They left the city and headed southeast. As they crossed the city limits, scattered raindrops fell but quickly stopped. Yeongin placed an apple on her lap, pushed her thumb into the stem end, and split it in half. She held one half to Inbeom’s mouth and bit into the other, gazing out at the mountain shrouded in darkness beyond the highway. Somewhere out there, there must be a village, but it wasn’t visible except for the occasional flicker of light. The farther away it was, the more slowly it seemed to reach her.

Yeongin thought: The base of the mountain must lead to the village, the village to the fields and paddies. Water would still be draining from the rice fields, the rainwater in the creeks would still be swirling, winding downstream. Peach and pear trees would have dropped their fruit onto the soaked ground, the rice stalks must be flattened and submerged, barn floors would be a muddy mess, the chickens and pigs dead, the bellies of cows soaked, kittens swept away. And those who saw and heard all this must be thinking: How are we supposed to live now?

It rained too much, Yeongin said. It rained a lot in Vietnam, too.

Really?

Trees were uprooted. Windows and signs smashed and torn down. But none of it felt unfamiliar. It felt like I’d seen it before. Like it had happened here. If someone told me it wasn’t Vietnam but somewhere in Korea, I’d have believed them. That’s how it looked.

Yeah.

Yeongin watched as Inbeom let go of the steering wheel with one hand to take another bite of apple. She chewed hard, in big, determined bites, like she wanted to finish it fast, then handed the core to Yeongin. She took it with a napkin and wadded it into a ball. Inbeom stared straight ahead, still chewing.

Inbeom, Yeongin said. Do you ever think about how bad people can be?

I don’t know.

I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately.

What kind of bad?

Just . . . regular bad. The kind that’s everywhere.

Yeongin looked down at the apple in her hand. The bitten part had already started to brown.

The people you mentioned. The bad things they do. But the more I think about it, the harder it is to figure out what makes something bad.

Yeah, it’s hard.

On the heart. On the mind.

Yeah.

It’s not something I did, but I can’t say it didn’t pass through my hands either. Lately, everywhere I look, that’s all I see. No place is safe anymore.

Inbeom turned on the signal and merged into the right lane. Rockfall barriers flashed white in the headlights. The slopes where black trees stood alternated with pale retaining walls.

I went to the West Sea once, when I was twenty, Inbeom said.

There were four of us, I think. My friend’s uncle had rented a bungalow by the coast, but something came up and he couldn’t go, so we went instead. When we arrived, the people in the next bungalow were out on their terrace, frying something in oil. Mitten crabs. They said the area was full of them.

Just a short walk away was a mudflat, and apparently it was crawling with crabs. One of my friends said we should go right away, so we borrowed a bucket and some hand hoes from the caretaker and headed out. We wandered between the mud and the rocks, collecting mitten crabs. It was fun. We kept finding them, spotting them everywhere. We dug with the hoes again and again, pulling up more crabs. Even after we’d filled over half the bucket, we didn’t stop.

Then one friend held out their palm and said, Look at this. It was a baby octopus. It was so small, smaller than a pinky finger, from its head to the tip of a tentacle. It was strange. So tiny, but unmistakably an octopus. We stared at it, fascinated. Then that friend opened their hand and dropped it straight into the bucket of mitten crabs.

The crabs reared up, claws raised in fury.

Someone gasped, but it was already too late.

In a frenzy, they swarmed the octopus and tore it apart.

They tore it to pieces.

We just stood there, staring into the bucket, stunned. I wanted to dump the whole thing out, leave the crabs behind, and go back to the bungalow. My knees and butt were soaked with mud, and I was cold, freaked out, and shivering. I kept saying we should stop, that we already had more than enough, but my friends didn’t want to leave. They kept digging, calling out, Look over here, over here. Soon the mood soured. One of them turned to me and said, What’s your problem? Said it’d been forever since they’d done something like this. That all they wanted was to have a little fun. And if I was done, I could head back to the bungalow by myself.

In the evening, we fried the mitten crabs, just like the people in the next bungalow had done. We borrowed a burner and a pot from the caretaker, along with some flour. I ate the crabs too. I didn’t want to make my friends uncomfortable. But we couldn’t even finish frying all of them. The leftover crabs, as if they’d run out of strength, stayed curled up, their legs tight against their bodies. Whenever the bucket tilted, they clattered like wet gravel. In the end, we handed the whole bucket with the rest of the crabs over to the caretaker.

Later, one of the friends wrote about the trip on her blog. How fun it had been, how delicious the crabs were. I was part of the story too. She posted a photo of my feet in the mudflat with the caption: The friend who kept whining about going back to the bungalow because she didn’t want to get sunburned.

I don’t think the friend who dropped the octopus into the bucket was bad. What kind of malice could there have been? And the rest of us, who just stood there and watched while the octopus got torn apart—what kind of malice could we possibly have had? We were just stupid, that’s all.

Eonni, if the world ever goes to hell and we can’t turn it back, I don’t think it’ll be because people are bad or full of malice. It’ll be because we’re stupid. That numb indifference. The kind where you see something and feel nothing. That kind of thing.

I just didn’t want to be part of it again.

Stuffing a bucket full of mitten crabs like it’s a game, then tossing in a baby octopus—how easily it happens, how it becomes nothing, how we pretend it’s nothing. I never want to do that again.

I’m just trying not to turn into that, Inbeom said with a sigh. I think I’m a little worn out these days.

That’s why I acted like that—why I spoke so harshly to you. I’m sorry.

They were stuck on the road for a long time as they passed through two interchanges into the city. Morning arrived as they stopped and started. The sun would be fully up before they reached their destination, but Yeongin didn’t mind. Inbeom didn’t seem to either.

Maybe we can just sit by the beach for a while, have a coffee,

and then head back.

Yeongin opened the center console and found a packet of biscuits, but Inbeom couldn’t remember how old they were. As Yeongin nibbled on them, she looked out at the dull morning light. The mountains, just beginning to change with autumn, looked dusty and gray.

The autumn leaves won’t be that vibrant this year, Inbeom said. I heard if it rains too much right before the season starts, the colors fade.

Really?

The sun came up between scattered clouds, casting a cold light. Once they passed the congested stretch of road, Inbeom started speeding again. Yeongin pulled up the navigation app on her phone and scrolled through the route. After passing a small village, the road snaked ahead like a lazy serpent. It felt like they were crossing a mountain pass. On the map, the earlier road had been marked red, then yellow. Now the road they were on was green. Yeongin said that up ahead, the road was marked blue.

Have you ever seen that?

No. What does blue mean?

Must mean no traffic. Like, we’ll be able to go really fast.

They sped down the quiet road and entered a tunnel.

It was long and narrow, with a high ceiling. It looked newly built. About halfway in, Inbeom leaned forward toward the steering wheel and began to slow down. Yeongin saw the car a second later. It had crashed into the right wall, blocking the lane. The tunnel was dim, making it hard to see. For some reason, the car’s hazard lights weren’t on, and from a distance, only the faint rear light was visible, just enough to signal something was there.

Inbeom pulled up behind the wreck and turned on her hazards. What do we do . . . she murmured. After exchanging a glance with Yeongin, she unbuckled her seatbelt and got out. Yeongin climbed out too. The air smelled of cement and blew her hair back.

She followed Inbeom and peered into the driver’s side. The driver was still in the seat, slumped toward the passenger side. When Inbeom knocked on the window, he slowly straightened. Inbeom opened the door. An elderly man with age spots on his cheeks stared at them, dazed. Even when they asked if he was okay, he didn’t answer. He just looked at them like they were ghosts. A large crate full of farming tools sat in the passenger seat.

While Inbeom asked if he could move, Yeongin pulled out her phone to call emergency services. She stared at the damp leaves stuck to the rusty hood while she waited to connect. The call didn’t go through. She tried again. Just then, the old man turned the wheel. His old Sorento lurched forward, scraping along the tunnel wall with a harsh screech.

No!

Inbeom clung to the door and was dragged a few steps. Yeongin grabbed her by the waist. She panicked when Inbeom wouldn’t let go of the door.

Stop! they shouted together. Turn off the engine! Stop!

The old man stepped on the accelerator a few more times, trying to move the car forward, then slumped back, drained. He stared blankly as Inbeom reached in and pulled the key from the ignition. His breathing was now shallow and uneven. Blood trickled from the right side of his head, down his temple, and off his chin. Inbeom held his hands, which kept reaching for the wheel, and gazed into his eyes.

Sir, look at me. Just look at me.

Yeongin covered one ear against the roar of the jet fan and the wind as she spoke to emergency services. Not knowing the name of the tunnel, she gave the last town they’d passed and read off the man’s license plate. Her voice was hoarse, and she had to clear her throat several times.

After the call, she looked toward the tunnel entrance. Outside, it was blindingly bright. That’s why they hadn’t seen the wreck when they entered. With no traffic ahead, cars would be entering at high speed, just like they had.

What if the next driver couldn’t slow down in time?

As the thought crossed her mind, a car entered the tunnel, its square headlights cutting through the dark. Yeongin stood beside Inbeom’s car, hazards flashing, and waved her arms. The first car crossed the lane and sped past, stirring up a gust of wind. Then a second car passed, then a third, a fourth. Each one switched lanes early to avoid the wreck, but the fifth car didn’t slow until the last second. As it swerved sharply, it let out a long, angry honk.

Yeongin understood the driver’s fury. She also understood the moment that had just passed. In that split second, she’d seen it: the collisions, one after another, the bodies tangled and thrown from the crash. First her own. Then Inbeom’s and the old man’s. Then the approaching driver’s. The next person’s. The chain reaction. She understood that all of them, in that single instant, had moved from one possibility to another, from one moment to the next. But what about the next time?

Am I crying?

She wondered: Do I believe? In the driver who just passed? In the one coming next? Do I believe they’ll stop? That they’ll slow down? It was hard for her to say yes, and that was what scared her most.

Inbeom was calmly looking into the old man’s face, saying something, and he now had both legs outside the car and was gazing back at her. Inbeom’s hands were streaked with his blood.

Yeongin wiped her face with her sleeve and walked toward their car. She had no choice—no choice at all. Though she felt like this, could she act? Could she not? She opened the driver’s side door, leaned in, and pressed the horn. We’re here, we’re here, we’re here. Inbeom glanced over.

Kwahhh—

A deafening blast filled the tunnel. Yeongin turned her face toward the oncoming headlights and hit the horn again. The wind kept rushing in. The cars entering the tunnel surged closer, like pistons in a cylinder.