“Hara, I don’t think you should do this. Let me help you send an email.”

I turn away from the car to find Boyoung has caught up. Did she take a taxi? I didn’t see her on the train. The other girl is panting and a light sheen of sweat dots her forehead.

“What’s the point of waiting? I’ve waited twenty-five years. I think that’s long enough.”

“How will you get past security?”

For the first time I notice that the entrance to the elevators is blocked by a row of clear gates and manned by two security guards. I don’t give two flying fingers about security. I’ll jump the stiles if I have to.

“Pretend like you’re sick and distract them for me,” I tell my friend.

“No. I can’t do that. Wait, Hara, please.”

But I’m determined. I draft behind another employee, and when the woman swipes her badge and the acrylic gates part, I slide in behind her.

I hear the male voices, presumably from the security guards, call out something, but I pretend I don’t hear them. It’s not like I understand what they are saying anyway. The woman in front of me hesitates and looks over her shoulder. I walk by, pretending like nothing out of the ordinary is occurring, straight to the elevators. I’m going to IF Group and nothing is stopping me. I jab the up button and silently urge the doors to open. Hard footsteps slap against the ground, growing louder as they near. Out of the corner of my eye, I see two uniformed men walking toward me. The two men almost reach me but the doors of the elevator car slide open. My escape! I leap forward and run smack dab into a wall of human chest.

“Hara?”

I look up from the blue cotton shirt and smart blue tie with the tiny polka dots to see Yujun smiling crookedly down at me, his hands on my shoulders so I don’t fall.

“Yujun,” I croak.

“You’re . . . here?” He’s surprised.

I am, too, but not in a good way. Not in any good way. My skin feels clammy and that cold wave that washed over me at the café returns. I sway and he tightens his grip. “Are you not feeling well, Hara?”

“Are you . . . Is this . . .” The question sits on my tongue like a rotted piece of fruit that I can’t swallow. I have to get it out but it’s stuck there. I grab the paper from my pocket and shove it into his chest. “Is this your mother?”

With one hand still on my shoulder, he takes the sheet and scans it. “Where did you get this?”

“Is this your mother? Your eomma? The one who taught you not to stutter anymore.” The one you adore, who gave you all this self-confidence, the one you’re so proud of because of all the good she’s doing in the world. Is this your mother? I scream silently. I want him to say no. I need him to deny this.