The odd tone in Boyoung’s voice draws my attention. I stop hunting for an outlet. “What is it?”

She holds out the bag. “I need to take you somewhere and I brought you this because I didn’t know if you had packed something like it.”

I set aside the phone and peek inside the shopping bag. There’s a dress—a black one. I don’t want to jump to conclusions, but the last time I wore a black dress . . . I leave the thought unfinished as the soft, silky fabric snakes through my fingers. Boyoung says nothing either and so I have to ask, even though I don’t want to.

“This dress is”—the words come out raspy and harsh—“this dress looks like it’s for a funeral.” I raise my eyes to see the denial, but when Boyoung still can’t meet my gaze, that’s when I know. I’ve lost two dads.

I stumble, the backs of my knees hitting the bed. The black dress spills out of the bag and spreads across the floor like a dark stain between Boyoung and me.

“I’m sorry, Hara. I’m so sorry,” Boyoung says, as if this is somehow her fault.

My first instinct is to say that it’s no big deal or that it’s okay, but I don’t feel okay. My chest feels heavy, as if there’s a thousand-pound weight pressing down on a very fragile organ. I swallow once and try to speak, but no sound comes out.

“I will wait downstairs,” Boyoung says, likely thinking I need privacy to change, but when the door closes and I’m left alone with the black dress lying at my feet, I can’t move.

Pat was big into all sports. He didn’t measure time by months or seasons, but by sports. Football was in the fall. Basketball took over in the winter and ended in June. Baseball was in full swing by then. He tried to get me interested, but I was afraid of small balls and would duck whenever Pat threw one at me. My legs weren’t very long, so track was out. In a desperate attempt to prove to my father that we had similar interests, I professed a deep interest in hunting. In truth, I was as scared of guns as I was of balls, and the idea of killing anything as cute as Bambi made me want to barf, but my love for my father and my need for his approval outweighed all of that.

I went through a six-week training class to learn about gun safety. After getting my certificate, I went to the range and fired the shotgun three weekends in a row despite the kickback causing so much bruising on my right shoulder that I had to carry my backpack to school with my hand. Despite all of that, I looked forward to winter for once. We were going on a big weekend trip together. When the first snow fell, Pat got me up at four in the morning and we drove to a field. Dressed in an orange hunter’s jacket that was two sizes too big for me, I walked along the tree line behind my dad, clutching the shotgun in my hands. It was so quiet that I could hear the freshly frozen blades of grass crunch beneath my boots.