“What would you do there?” Jeff asks. He’s confused. “I saw this video once of them eating live squid.”

“It wasn’t alive.” I’d seen the same video going around social media. Soy sauce was poured onto a dead squid and the thing rose up and danced in the bowl because of some chemical reaction between the salt in the condiment making contact with the cephalopod, but from the reaction to the video, you’d think a fish massacre was taking place on the table.

“It was Japanese,” Boyoung murmurs.

“What?”

“She said it was a Japanese video,” Kelly says with exasperation. “There isn’t one Asian country, but Jeff is sort of right. You don’t speak Korean, do you?”

Next to me, Boyoung stiffens. “Do you?”

“No.”

And my friend visibly relaxes. I pat her shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’ve never understood a word you said to anyone on the phone.” Not that I’ve heard her talk all that often, but sometimes she’s spoken to someone in Korean. I don’t know if they all speak as quickly as she does, but I couldn’t even begin to tell where the sentences began or ended.

“How would you get around? How would you order something to eat or find a bathroom?” Kelly asks.

“All good questions,” I say.

“And?” my friend prompts.

“The subway has signs in English,” Boyoung pipes up in my defense. “And in tourist spots there are helpers who speak English and Chinese. Many restaurants have English menus, and in Itaewon, there are many, what do you say, expats?”

Jeff claps his hands. “Maybe we should all go.”

“To where?” Kelly wonders.

“Korea,” Jeff says. It’s his turn to be irritated. “We can all go and then you guys can’t call me ignorant anymore.”

“I don’t have the money for that,” Kelly laments, sliding halfway down the booth seat until only her shoulders are above the table. “Isn’t it expensive, Boyoung?”

“No. Food is cheap or expensive depending on where you go. It is the same with places to live. There are poor places in Seoul and rich places, too.”

“What’s it like there?” Jeff wonders. We all lean forward.

Boyoung is quiet for a long time before she says, “Beautiful.”

And some free-floating piece of my heart slides into place with an audible click.

• • •

IT WAS A month after I’d gotten the Hey sport text that I signed up for the DNA matching service. Kelly had come to work and announced that she was one-sixteenth Inuit based on her DNA test results and that she might have second cousins who lived in Canada. She was excited about this and told me I should sign up and find out what I was made of, at least for health reasons. I once told her that filling out doctor’s forms at a clinic took no time because I didn’t have to answer any of the family history questions. When I was a kid, Mom had suggested I undergo genetic testing but Dad balked because it was too expensive. After the divorce, Mom had other things on her mind and never followed up.