I know enough to begin my search and I start from the top: Kim Eunshil. It’s not an uncommon name. There are hundreds of search results and based on a couple of the pictures, one is a doctor or, perhaps, a scientist given the lab coat she’s wearing. Another one is dressed in a suit, and there are a few in their school uniforms. The thing is that none of the pictures strikes any chord of recognition. I scroll through so many photos and pages that it becomes a blur, like a Mark Rothko painting with giant swatches of colors bleeding together.

My flatmates come home from work, one after the other, looking tired. When Jules arrives, she’s carrying two white plastic bags with something heavenly in them.

“Korean fried chicken,” she says, plunking them on the table.

“Ten thousand won?” That was the buy-in price the first night.

“Yup.”

I dig out the appropriate bill and slide it toward Jules. Anna pockets it instead.

“I paid.” She sits down next to me. “Whatcha doing?”

“Looking up these names.” I point to my list.

“What names?” Jules calls from the kitchen.

“She’s trying to find her birth mother,” Anna answers for me. “Remember? I told you she had the funeral a couple of days ago.”

“Wow. You just got here and had to go to a funeral? That’s rough.” Mel carries over a stack of plastic cups and a pitcher of water. Behind her, Jules trails with plates and napkins and clear plastic gloves to handle the chicken.

“So these are your mom?” Jules pulls a glove on one hand and picks up the photos with the other. “What happened to these two?”

“Coffee accident.”

“Sucks. Looks like the names are gone from these two. What else have you found?”

“Not much.”

“Give me one.” Mel wiggles her fingers.

“Yeah, I can do one, too,” Anna volunteers. She plunks a picture in front of Jules. “You, too.”

Jules makes a face.

“It’s fine,” I say quickly, reaching for the picture. “I’ve got this.”

Jules moves it out of my reach. “I’ll do it, but you should eat the chicken with chopsticks or you’re going to get grease on your photos.”

We all do, forgoing the plastic gloves in order to keep the photos in good shape. It’s a thoughtful gesture from Jules, who oftentimes comes off as cold.

“Thank you,” I tell her.

She shrugs and stuffs a piece of chicken into her mouth. With the photos passed around, phones and laptops come out. In between bites of crispy chicken—no wonder there’s one on every block, the stuff is delicious—my flatmates and I search up the names.

“God, who could believe there are so many Kim Eunshils. This one is twelve.” Anna holds up her phone for everyone to see. “She won a presidential award for excellence in linguistics, which means she speaks English well.”

“Japanese, too,” Mel suggests. “Everyone here learns two languages. Sometimes three, depending on how much money you have. How many languages does your chaebol speak?”