I opt for jeans and a black silky T-shirt that has a scoop neck. Around my neck, I tie a velvet ribbon for decoration. The shoes that Boyoung provided with the funeral gear will be perfect with this outfit even if the soles are worn out. I have to pay her back for all of this. I keep forgetting and she isn’t saying a word. I’ll settle up with her tomorrow. It seems fitting to wear my funeral shoes to a nightclub. It’s a sort of weird clash of experiences that have summed up my three days in Korea. Even if I don’t know why I’m here, at least the experience is memorable.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Club Dance is four stories of LED screens stitched together to project enormous illusions. The exterior of the club is so fancy, so technological, so full of lights and screens and moving images, that I half wonder if I’m inside a gaming console. I wouldn’t be surprised if a flying car speeds across the sky just below the planes taking off and landing. The airport is within spitting distance.

The line to get in is long, which is expected given that even I, whose knowledge of Korean culture is shallower than a puddle, recognize the performers. I don’t mind, though, because there’s so much to look at and I don’t mean the architecture. It’s the first time since the airport that I’ve paid much attention to the people around me. There’s the occasional wildly dyed head, but for the most part everyone has jet-black hair. I reach up and run a hand over my own straight locks. In this line, I don’t stand out. The people in front of me are staring, but not at me—at my flatmates. I fit in. I fit in so much that at the door, the bouncer frowns when I present my passport as my ID. He stares at the document a long time before inspecting my face with his flashlight. This time I don’t blurt out that I’m adopted, but I won’t lie, it’s on the tip of my tongue. Sorry I’m confusing you. I’m adopted. Not from here. Or, I was originally from here, but then I got sent to America, where I grew up next to the corn and cows. And insurance. Iowa is big on insurance. It’s the second-largest insurance capital—

He grunts and passes me through. Access to the club is via a winding staircase lined with vertical brass bars that leads into an enormous two-story space with more strobe lights than at a stadium concert. The line to the bar seems longer than the one to get inside, and when we reach the counter, the bartender barks out something in Korean. And, of course, I have no idea what he’s saying. Beer should be a universal word. Everywhere you go, you should be able to say, “Beer me,” and everyone would know exactly what you want. That and “bathroom.” “Where’s the toilet” and “Beer me” will be the first language edicts I make when I’m in charge of the world.