He dashed to the kitchen for a sponge and wood-cleaning soap, his head pounding. It was only after he’d finished scrubbing and rinsing the blood off the floor that he realized he’d wiped away all evidence of the intrusion.

Bah! He took a Xanax, then a Klonopin, and chased them down with whisky for good luck.

The Camry sat on the driveway under the blazing sun.

“You have to get in there!” Mira screamed at her mother.

“Trust me, Ma, it’s not going to explode.” Rosemary spoke calmly. Someone had to be the voice of reason.

Mrs. Park stared at the car, the key ring in her hand. She squeezed the button—cheep-cheep!—and unlocked the doors.

“Get in there, Mother!” Mira opened the driver’s door and pushed her mother to it. “Now!”

“Wait, wait . . .” Mrs. Park gripped the edge of the door, panting. “. . . Slowly!”

“Take your time, Ma,” Rosemary said.

“Take her time? It’s been, like, three months.” Mira rolled her eyes at her painfully diplomatic sister. “Tell her. Tell. Her.”

Mrs. Park looked to her older daughter for kinder words.

“Ma, we . . . bought a book,” Rosemary said. “On driving.”

“We’re going to study it ourselves,” Mira cut in, “since you’re incapable of it.”

Tears welled up in Mrs. Park’s eyes. The girls couldn’t tell if she was moved or insulted. When her brow furrowed, they had their answer. She slammed the car door shut and hit the button on the key ring, locking it. Cheep! Avoiding their eyes, she stalked back into the house.

“You see? We shouldn’t have told her,” Rosemary said, pulling a spiderweb off the car’s wiper. She wound it around her finger like a loom.

“How else will we get through to her? She’s not Amish, you know.”

“I know, but she’s, like, super bueno mucho upset now.”

“I can’t tell you how sick I am of eating that ramen she buys from the am/pm. I’m anticipating bone loss from the MSG.”

They turned to the house as the screen door opened. Mrs. Park popped out.

“I make a plan.” She met their eyes. “We go back to Korea.”

The Mystery Boom Box had not boomed in more than two weeks. The last time the girls heard it was the Fourth of July, when it blasted patriotic songs by country-singer types.

Mira thought, If only Dad had waited another few weeks. If only I hadn’t used the music as an excuse for not doing my homework. If only Ma hadn’t pushed Dad to the brink with her incessant sea-hag nattering. It wasn’t even that she liked her father much, but she liked the idea of moving to Korea even less. There, she imagined, all the men wore fake Air Jordans, burped kimchi and spent their spare time beating up their wives.