“One carton, but it’s mine, and if you eat it, you need to pay for it.”

I reach inside and grab the small carton with the odd heart-shaped face and blue body on the cover. Jules is always buying this brand, but at least it’s good. I prop myself up against the fridge and use the small wooden spoon attached to the lid to feed myself the creamy strawberry goodness.

“How’s the job going?”

“It sucks. Pay is terrible. Rich people are the worst. They ask for the most outrageous shit and treat you like dirt when you can’t get it.” Jules mimics one of her passengers. “‘What do you mean you don’t have Armand de Brignac Ace of Spades? Veuve Clicquot is for cheap hookers.’”

“I have no idea what any of that means.”

Jules makes a face. “Champagne, and she wanted a mimosa, which, why are you mixing four-hundred-thousand-won booze with thousand-won juice? Makes zero sense.” She gets up with a huff, her chair legs scraping against the tiled floor, and stomps to the recycling bins. “If I had money, I’d be everyone’s favorite customer. I’d tip well. Say thank you. Wouldn’t give a rat’s ass if my mimosa was made with five-thousand-won Brut or five-hundred-thousand-won Louis Roederer, which, by the way, is a hundred times better than the other stuff.”

An idea pops into my head. It’s a bad one, but it’s better than standing around here all day holding up the appliances. “How much money would it take for you to be my translator today?”

Jules’s head swivels around. “What?”

“I need a translator. How much would it cost me to rent you out for the next”—I check the clock—“four hours?”

Jules’s eyes narrow. “A hundred thousand won an hour.”

“Too much. What about twenty thousand?”

“And we use cabs, not the metro.”

“Done.” I might be better off paying Jules the hundred dollars an hour she asked for, but it’s ninety degrees out and walking between subway stops doesn’t appeal to me either. It’s money well spent. At least I’m doing something.

“Fine. Let me get an extra battery charger. My phone’s almost dead.” She speeds out of the kitchen.

“Aren’t you going to ask me what you need to translate?” I shout after her.

“Who cares? You’re paying me and I’m getting out of the house. It’s a win. Besides”—her voice becomes somewhat muffled—“it’s about the women, right? The ones in the pictures?”

Jules is smarter than I realized. She appears at the top of the stairs. “Are we going or what?”

I jump to attention. “We’re going.” I run and get my own phone.

Jules doesn’t ask a single question during the cab ride to my father’s last home, and I find that disinterest almost comforting. I don’t have to explain myself to her. She’s along for the ride and the money.

Her silence doesn’t last for long. When the driver drops us off, she immediately says, “You were born here? That explains a lot.”