“ID,” he says.

ID? I blank out for a moment and then fumble in my purse for my passport. “Here.” I hurry back and show it to him.

He scrutinizes it and then picks up a phone. Oh. He’s calling Kim Jihye. That’s not good. The woman won’t know who I am. She won’t let me up. My mind empties out and I react in panic, grabbing my passport from security and motoring toward the elevator. Someone behind me shouts but I don’t listen. I’m too close and I won’t be stopped because of some office protocol that does not apply to me. I speed around the corner, ignoring surprised office workers who stop to watch me scurry to the elevator bank. Once there, I jab the up button repeatedly. I hear footsteps racing toward me.

“Come on. Come on,” I mutter, watching the lights above the elevator doors count down to the lobby floor.

The doors slide open, but before I can climb on, a whole mass of people pours out of the cab. Irritated looks drive me backward and into the arms of a security guard. He glares at me and points to the exit.

No. Not today. I dart inside the elevator and smack into another person, who screeches and falls backward. I grab the woman’s arm and pull myself upright.

“Jamsimanyo,” the woman says. Wait a minute.

I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out because I’m staring at the face of Kim Jihye—the woman with the three-finger forehead and the oval face.

“It’s you,” I blurt out.

Kim Jihye blinks at me and then says something else. I can’t respond, and for the umpteenth time I mentally slap myself for not learning my mother tongue.

“I’m sorry. I don’t speak Korean. I’m from America. I’m . . . adopted.” The word falls from my lips, half apology, half accusation.

Kim Jihye responds with a nod. “Ah, I do not speak English well. Sorry. Do you need help?”

Yes. A lot of it. I pull out my phone and try to pronounce one of the sentences that Anna and the girls wrote out for me, but after three stumbling attempts, I give up and go straight to my English. “I need to speak with you. Can I buy you a coffee?”

Kim Jihye cocks her head.

“Please,” I beg. “Ko-pi ga-ju-se-yo,” I stammer out in broken, barely comprehensible Korean.

The woman makes no move toward the door. I consider grabbing the woman’s hand and dragging her out, but I can feel the grim stares of the security guards.

“Hara! Hara!”

I spin around to see Boyoung racing toward the elevator bank, her jacket billowing behind her like a superhero’s cape. I’ve never felt so happy to see anyone in my entire life. I almost collapse in relief.

“Boyoung!” I exclaim. “What are you doing here?”

“I called your home and your flatmate told me you would be here.” Boyoung tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear and peers around me. “Is that one of them?”