He’d paid for half-board but he never appeared for meals. Perhaps he didn’t like Korean food. The evening before, I’d told him I’d make a French dish, pasta in a crème fraîche sauce. He didn’t show up, the other guests didn’t like the pasta, nor did Park, and I’d found pastry wrappers in his room again. I’d made up my mind to stop putting myself out for this foreigner who showed no interest in local cuisine. But his drawing was wound through my thoughts; I couldn’t get it out of my head.

I stood there for a moment, not moving.

“Are we still going to the border on Monday?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Feeling suddenly annoyed, I turned to face him. Was he going to stay on the roof for much longer? If not, I’d lock up. He stayed.

I decided to go to the jjimjilbang. I hadn’t had a soak in a sulfur bath for ages, it would do me good. I scrubbed myself for a long time with a boar-bristle brush, scraping away dead skin cells and sebum from all the different parts of my body: feet, legs, backside, belly, shoulders, and breasts. Then I plunged into the scalding water until my skin dissolved into a mass of muscle and fat as pink as the scar on my thigh.

THE WIND WAS sweeping the clouds over the surface of the road. Late afternoon light. Skeletal remains of villages on either side of the road. Cardboard boxes, plastic waste, blue metal sheets. No urban sprawl. Gangwon Province had been left to rot since the war. I told Kerrand to drive faster or we’d be late for the tour. I translated the road signs for him. I’d handed him the keys as we got in the car. I hated driving, I’d never intended to drive him there. It suited him fine.

At the checkpoint, a soldier younger than me made us fill in forms. A loudspeaker was delivering instructions on a loop. No photography. No filming. No leaving the marked pathway. No loud voices. No laughing. I handed the papers back to the soldier. He saluted and the fence opened onto no man’s land. Gray and beige as far as the eye could see. Reeds. Marshes. Here and there, a tree. It was two kilometers to the observation point. We had an armed convoy as our escort at first. Then it turned off and we were alone. The road started to snake between snow-filled ditches. Suddenly, Kerrand put his foot on the brake and I was thrown against the windshield.

“I thought she was going to cross,” he mumbled, his hands clutching the steering wheel.

By the side of the road, a woman. Hunched beneath a pink jacket. Kerrand signaled to her to cross. She stood there, not moving, her hands crossed behind her back. He started up again carefully. I could see her in the side mirror, following us with her eyes. She watched us until we disappeared from view round a bend. My throat was feeling dry from the heater.