“You’re not supposed to hold children like you’re scared they’re going to bite you. He doesn’t even have teeth yet, Seokga.” Honestly, it’s hilarious how frightened Seokga seems to be of the tiny god. It should help Kisa in her squashing endeavor, but unfortunately seems to be having the opposite sort of effect. Drat.

“Greeeeeh!” agrees Hwanin, wide blue eyes shining with mirth.

Seokga’s mouth twitches in what she hopes is amusement. “So we’ll take Korain?” he asks, but a moment later, Somi is breezing toward Kisa, looping her arm around hers, and dragging her out of the sick bay.

“We’ll take Korain,” Somi calls over her shoulder. “You two boys can snoop around the stairwell. Ta!”

When it’s just the two of them, it’s as if Somi’s mask begins to fray. Kisa watches with quiet interest as the loud, confident gumiho draws into herself and occasionally peers at her with wide brown eyes riddled with guilt. It’s as if Somi suddenly becomes very young and uncertain. As they descend the stairwell leading down to Deck 2, Somi abruptly grabs Kisa’s narrow wrist, bringing her to a halt.

Warily, Kisa waits for the words that seem to be stumbling around inside the gumiho’s mouth. “You really don’t remember anything?” she finally whispers, holding tight.

“No,” she replies softly, twisting her wrist from Somi’s grip. “All I know is this life, the one I lived as Yoo Kisa.” Memories make a person. It’s in the literature on nature versus nurture, in the question of the Ship of Theseus.

In Kisa’s opinion, it is not the same ship.

It is physically incapable of being the same ship.

The two ships are separate. And if the sailors are upset about that, perhaps they should reduce their bloody expectations for the new ship. Ships made of oak are just as nice as ships made of pine—and it can even be argued that oaken ships are more durable than easily rotted pine ships. Plus, oaken ships would never steal from an ATM—

Kisa wants to throw her hands exasperatedly up in the air. What she would give, truly, for her mind to be quiet sometimes. What does it matter? she chides herself. It doesn’t. Stop it.

There must be a way to stop a crush from taking root within her, some sort of—of concoction to make the inconvenient thing shrivel and die.

“I remember nothing from Hani’s life,” Kisa continues to the gumiho, an ache beginning to pulse in her right temple as she tries, very hard, not to ruminate on her dilemma.

Something almost like relief crosses Somi’s face before it’s replaced by sadness. “I’m assuming you know some already.”