I glance at the device in my hand. Yujun said he bought this but I wonder if it was Wansu’s doing. “I had phone insurance.” I mean, Wansu had paid for it as she’d paid for so many things in the past that I didn’t know about. Before Ellen can ask any more unintentionally discomfiting questions, I tell her about Namsan and the Seoul Tower, eating soondubu jjigae, shopping in the underground. I make it sound like my days were busy doing touristy things and not traipsing all over Seoul looking for my birth mother.

The trip to Yongsan-gu is quick, which is good because my list of sightseeing in Seoul is pitifully short for a nearly two-week stay and I was running out of commentary. Oddly, there’s a crowd in front of the building and many of them are holding signs.

“What does it say?” Ellen asks.

“No clue.” I squint as if that will help my brain decipher the Hangul better, but while I recognize the characters, I don’t have the vocabulary to figure out the meaning.

In front of what looks like a group of protestors are people with cameras and handheld microphones. What had Bomi told me that one day in the café? Protesting is a Korean hobby. We will protest anything from our favorite yogurt drink being discontinued to ousting a corrupt president. It works and so we keep doing it.

“Protesting is part of a Korean’s DNA.”

“It’s not a bad thing,” Ellen replies, stepping lightly out of the cab.

“That’s what I said!” I exclaim as I climb out behind her.

Mom pats my face. “Because you’re my child.”

At my mother’s praise, a reflexive smile appears before I remember to squash it, but when I wipe the appreciation off my face, Mom appears crestfallen. Going forward is not going to be easy.

There’s a hush in the crowd noise, and suddenly the cameras are pointing in our direction. I look over my shoulder but there’s no one there. The doors to IF Group slam open and Bomi comes rushing out. There’s an urgency in her face that I can read even from here. Something isn’t right here.

“Let’s go, Mom,” I urge. We need to get inside.

Ellen’s confusion causes her to fight me for a second. The crowd of cameras swings around to close in on Bomi. “We need to go now.”

I grab Mom’s hand, cover my eyes, and pull her toward the front door. Bomi emerges from the pack and waves her fingers—pointed down—for me to hurry. “Ppalli ppalli,” I can hear her saying. Hurry.

“Is there something wrong?”

“I think so but I don’t know what.”

The reporters shout at Bomi, who ignores them. “Please come inside.” Her fingers close around my wrist at about the same time I see something white and small hurtle toward us.

“Bomi,” I shout, but it’s too late. The thing strikes the girl on the side of the head. Yellow slimy egg yolk explodes across her shiny black hair. She raises a hand and it comes away sticky and gross.