It was my last day. My last paycheck. On the window, the manager was taping up a large sign: Permanently Closed. Another sign beside it: For Lease. Most of the store’s shelves had already been emptied and stuffed into a box. The manager glanced at the television mounted on the wall, then out the window, at a group of military men, smoking on the sidewalk. Their cigarettes flickered.
“I’m sorry.”
A dialect.
“I just couldn’t wait until Saturday.”
I pulled out a chair and took off my uniform vest. There were fewer people at the convenience store today. Three high school girls slurped instant noodles in the back. In the corner, a young man played a game on his cell phone, tapping hard at the screen with his fingers. I sat facing a clock—Ms. Han sat facing me, blocking my view of the clock a little. She put her bag on her lap. Her eyes, searching left and right. She smoothed her crinkled sleeves, her fingers bandaged. Maybe she was Korean Chinese? I wasn’t sure. She spoke in a dialect, but I couldn’t tell which province she was from. The manager walked by, glancing at Ms. Han.
“I’m Han Myung-ja.”
A few hours ago, she had texted me. She wanted to see me before this Saturday. I told her I had a shift today, but if she really wanted, she could come visit during my break. My break was only thirty minutes. I thought she wouldn’t come. My shift was late at night, and it was my last day at work. If there was anything to explain, she could just tell me on the phone.
“How do you know Mr. Kim?”
“His work,” she said. “The nursing home—I cook there.”
Again, a dialect. She paused with each word, as if she was thinking about how her mouth should work. Her tongue too. She was struggling.
“Last week, I asked Mr. Kim if he knew anyone who could help. He told me about you. I was wondering if you could drive me, if you were okay with the payment.”
“Just one trip?”
She said, “Yes.”
“Do you have the address with you?”
She nodded.
“I want to check the routes before we go.”
Carefully, Ms. Han picked a yellow note from her bag. Folded into a neat little square, worn out around its edges. She handed it to me.
“Yeoju.”
I stared at the note.
“My brother’s in Yeoju.”
“Oh.”
“They only give ten minutes for visitors, so.” Ms. Han’s voice suddenly picked up speed. “We’d have to leave here at ten o’clock, and I also work on Saturdays, so I need to be back in town by three. Before my shift starts.”
Words tumbled carelessly, twisting and rolling in her mouth. Ms. Han sounded so foreign. She was not from Seoul, but she tried to speak as though she was. Her tongue seemed unable to control the words in her mouth.
“He said you can’t drive?” I asked.
“I don’t have a car,” she said. “Or a license.”
The word car took a few seconds to speak and license several more. Ms. Han’s eyes looked heavy, like large accessories tugging down her flesh. Or like bowls, holding an overflow of emotions. She looked anxious. Ms. Han tugged her scarf. Everything on her looked big. Her scarf, her shirt. Even her puffed-up hair.
“I think I should let you know, though,” I said. “I don’t have a car. So, I’ll have to take my sister’s car. Her car is in Wontong. I’ll have to ask her first.”
“Oh, okay.” She patted her chest. “Please let me know.”
“You want me to drive you this Saturday?”
“Yes.”
Two days from now.
“Yeoju,” I said. “And we leave at ten.”
She gave a quick nod. “I work two jobs on the weekdays, from seven to nine. Saturday is the only day I can go and see him.”
Ms. Han lifted her chin. Her eyes trembling with worry. She stared at my hands, at the note I held. In her eyes, my fingers held a decision. I slipped the note into my pocket. I’d have to read it later. I could tell she didn’t want any questions.
“It’s already been so many years.”
A circle of duct tape rolled onto the floor. It had slipped from the manager’s hand. The manager was staring into the darkness outside the window. All the military men were gone now. Their cigarettes put out, the embers extinguished. Without them, the darkness looked so much deeper. Emptier too.
“I can’t take the bus, the train.”
Ms. Han’s voice, almost a whisper.
“But I need to see him. I need to.”
Ms. Han didn’t look any more relaxed than when she had first walked in. If anything, she looked more tense, her face paler. The door swung closed. The chime rang, clanking after the high school girls, gone now. Their noodle cups and bags of chips remained on the table. I sighed. I’d have to clean them up. I turned my face back to Ms. Han, who was still staring at the door. I glanced up at the clock. Less than two minutes, and my break would be over. The clock’s hands continued to run in circles.
“Your break.” She lowered her head. “You should go back now.”
Ms. Han got up, stumbling a little. She looked confused, as if she had just woken from sleep, as if she was trying to understand why she was here. Ms. Han was short, standing at the height of my chest. Maybe even as short as Mr. Kim’s mother, who was well over eighty years old. Blotches and spots on her face and hands. Her skin so tanned.
“Thank you. I will see you this Saturday, then.”
Ms. Han bowed. I returned the bow, and she walked toward the door, slightly bowing to the manager as she passed. As Ms. Han was about to push open the door, I saw her hesitate.
I walked to the tables in the back, clearing bags of chips and unfinished noodle cups. All to be thrown out. There was always too much wasted food. Even the food that didn’t get sold, that reached its expiration date: cartons of chocolate, coffee, or banana-flavored milk. Lunch boxes with barbecued pork, sweet marinated beef, and steak. Rice balls stuffed with tuna mayo or spicy stir-fried chicken, wrapped in crispy roasted seaweed. The manager told me I could take some of it home. Better that I eat it. I would take a few today, all expired and heavy inside my bag.
The young man in the corner was still playing the video game. His face, so close to his cell phone. A neon battlefield reflected off the window. Explosions, firing. His fingers tapped, tapped, desperately. I threw out the noodles in the food waste bin—it was overflowing. I needed to empty it. I grabbed the countertop cleaner and sprayed it on the table, waving away the whiff of spicy ramen sauce still lingering in the air. I rubbed my tickling nose and took out my vibrating cell phone. A text from Mother: Did you eat? I sneezed and shoved my cell phone back into my pocket.
“You dropped something.”
The manager pointed at the floor. The note. It was on the floor. It must have slipped out of my pocket.
“Is she a North Korean?”
He scratched the stubble on his chin.
“The woman you were meeting with. I’ve heard it before. That’s a North Korean accent.”
Carefully, I unfolded the note. Ms. Han’s handwriting was small and neat, the letters shaped in careful black ink. Written firmly onto the paper, like they were meant to be carved.
Yeoju Prison, 107, Yanghwa-ro, Ganam-eup, Yeoju City, Gyeonggi Province.
A prison in Yeoju. Ms. Han’s brother. She wanted me to drive her to a prison. I turned over the note, hoping to find a different address, but nothing.
“She looks like a North Korean.”
The manager walked away. I studied the note more closely. Ms. Han had said, Visitors. Visitors were only allowed ten minutes. She had meant the prison’s visitation hours.
“Customers.”
I looked up. The manager grabbed the food waste bin and eyed the girls walking down the aisle. When had they come in? I hurried over to the counter, putting back on my uniform vest and tying up my hair. I shoved the note into my pocket and smiled.
“Welcome to Quick Four.”
Did Mr. Kim know about this—that Ms. Han wanted me to drive her to a prison? The girls put their baskets down on the counter. I scanned a pack of castella roll cake, two cartons of chocolate milk, and a stick of gum. If Mr. Kim had known, he wouldn’t have asked me. He knew that Mother would never allow it.
The two girls laughed. Whirling portable fans blowing their hair.
“It’s four thousand five hundred won.”
One of the girls glanced at the price.
“Would you like a bag?” I asked.
“No, we don’t need a bag.”
“Do you have a points card?”
One girl opened an app on her cell phone. The other handed me coins and bills. I counted and put them into the register. They grinned, tugging at each other’s sleeves. Whispering something about a guy in their class, about some teenage influencer, about how their school might really change their uniforms this time. They walked away, hugging their food, long ponytails swishing as they took a table in the back. Their charcoal blazers and green skirts were still the same gloomy colors as they had been three years ago, the talk of reform still empty. Min and I had hated wearing those uniforms.
I leaned over the counter, taking the note from my pocket, holding it up. I should have asked Ms. Han more questions. The stroke of her handwriting, slightly shaky. Maybe I should have left with Min. I should have gone somewhere far from here, like Seoul, to live in those tall apartment complexes, renovated and new. Crisp wallpaper, just pasted. Each room smelling of new paint. There was nothing for me here.
Yeoju, I murmured. Yeoju. I could do this as long as Mother didn’t know. It would just be one drive, and as of today, I needed another job. I straightened up, took my vibrating cell phone from my pocket. Mother. I shoved the note into my apron and answered.
“Watching the news?”
“What?” I asked.
“I sent you a link. You didn’t see it?”
“Mom, I’m still on my shift. I’ll call you back.”
“The news, it’s playing right now.”
I frowned, moving slightly to see the television, which always played the news. The passing subtitle on the screen was too small. Too far. The volume almost on mute.
South Korean Defense Minister promises to
“They’re talking about denuclearization. A peace summit.”
denuclearization and economic sanctions will be
“They are even talking about making the military voluntary.”
this summit will be an important step toward
“Then maybe your brother could get out early.”
President Oh—
“But North Korea launched two missiles last week. Why would they launch a missile if they want to talk about peace? It doesn’t make any sense and it’s not just nuclear weapons. How can we believe them?” Mother asked.
The rice cooker hissed in the background. Its vent caps rattled, letting out a long, agitated whistle. Mother wasn’t paying attention, ignoring everything but the television. Her hands, gripping her apron. Her back turned against the kitchen counter. The hissing continued. Mother had put in too much water again.
“I mean—” I sighed. “It’s at least a step.”
“A step?”
Water. I heard the sound of rushing water. Could she be? I checked the time. Was she filling up the kettle? Had she not washed them in the morning today?
“Your brother, did you—”
I sighed again.
“Mom, stop watching the news. Nothing’s going to happen. It’s a peace summit. It’s a good thing.”
Was she listening? She must have finally turned to the rice cooker, or the kettle. Everything was quiet now. Just some muted sounds from the television.
“You forgot to take your scarf this morning.”
“It’s not cold,” I said.
“It might get cold at night.”
I lowered my voice.
“I have to go now. My manager is staring at me.”
I hung up, about to move from behind the counter, when I saw it. The reddish rust stains spread on its metal body like some sickly skin disease. A small hole drilled into its head. A musty smell. The key. On the green countertop, there was the key. I picked it up, examined it.
I had never taken this key out of my room before. I would never.
Startled, I closed my hand as the girls burst into a shrill of giggles. Shaking their heads, slapping each other. What were they laughing about? On the television screen above them, I could see a dense smoke. Swirling colors of gray and black were spreading across the sky, swallowing up the entire expanse of calm blue. The growing flame pulled the smoke into its arms and pushed it out from its embrace. The motion, wide-reaching. Even the slightest movement, violent. The camera suddenly moved upward, and time began to push forward. Lapsing at a high speed. The sky cleared. Too quickly, the color became serene. As if nothing had happened, as if the gray and black of catastrophe had never taken place. The sky was blue again. Peaceful. Over the girls’ voices, I could hear a quiet ticking. The clock’s hands pushing toward the end of my last shift. Eight months. All the seconds, minutes, and hours I had spent here. Time was running forward, but here I was. Still at home.
I put the key in my pocket.