The dry dust on the asphalt mixes with the stale air of the funeral room and fills my lungs with an acrid, bitter taste. My feet feel as though they are weighed down by concrete blocks instead of shod with delicate black flats. The shoes, like the dress, are ruined. At the top of the hill, I pluck at the sweat-soaked bodice of my dress. I’m ready for a shower and a nap. Inside, Anna sits at the kitchen table painting her nails.

“Is there a place I should put this?” I ask, wearily holding up the cloth-wrapped containers.

“Is it food?”

“Yes. I think it’s kimchi and some other stuff.” I’d peeked in the taxi.

“The kimchi goes in the middle section. God, homemade kimchi. I can’t wait.” Anna caps the polish and hurries over to take the container from me. She carries it to the table, and with one tug on the knot, the wrapping falls apart. “Everything in Korea is always presented so nice. I swear even if it was dog poo, they’d put it in a special dish and wrap it with a cloth. How was the funeral?”

“How’d you know I went to a funeral?”

“Your friend showed up in a hurry with a shopping bag full of black stuff and then you disappeared for two days. What else could it be?” Anna lifts the lid of the fermented cabbage and takes a long whiff. “This stuff smells good.” She flashes me a smile. “There’s nothing wrong with the market kimchi, but it doesn’t have the same flavor as the stuff the aunties make. What else do we have here? Marinated bean sprouts? Fish cakes? Nice. So who was it? The funeral.”

“Oh, my father’s.”

She nearly drops the plastic container. “Your dad? Oh my God. I’m so sorry. I’ve been rattling on like it’s—”

“I didn’t know him,” I interrupt before she can pile on the condolences. The only thing I’m feeling sad about at this moment is that I rented a room at the top of the steepest hill in Seoul. “I’m going to shower.”

Maybe under the hot water, some kind of revelation will come to me about whether I should stay or go. I know what Mom would say. Come home immediately. The death is a sign. Boyoung would likely vote for me to leave, too. My roommates won’t care as long as I pay my leasing fee.

“Okay. Hey, wait. Are these yours?”

Hand on the railing, I turn a tired eye in Anna’s direction and squint. The smaller girl is holding up a photo. Wait. No. Not a single photo. There are five in total. I nearly fall down the steps in my rush back to Anna’s side. In each one, my father has an arm slung around a pretty young woman. Sometimes the arm is around her shoulders; sometimes it’s snug around the waist. The women have a sameness about them, as if my dad had a type—sloped eyes, small nose, and round chin. My hand rises to touch my own curved chin, which I’ve never liked because Ellen’s chin is so strong and square.