I WOKE UP with a dry mouth, my limbs numb. It was dark, the clock said 4 A.M. My stomach weighed heavily on me. I closed my eyes. When I opened them again it was ten o’clock. I dragged myself painfully from my bed and let some air into the room. My face felt puffy and I took some ice from the windowsill to relieve the swelling.

Old Park didn’t comment when I arrived late at reception. He’d taken care of breakfast. Without looking up from his newspaper, he said the girl and her boyfriend had spent the evening in their room, he’d eaten his Seollal meal alone in front of the television, which was just as well, my overcooked tteokguk would have damaged the guest house’s reputation. The program on television was interesting, he said, a pop song competition.

Kerrand came into the kitchen with some muffins from the convenience store. I got to work on the dishes. Tried to look busy. He ate standing up, gazing out of the window. With the light behind him, his nose made him look like a seagull in profile. I had to make an effort not to stare. Park turned on the radio. A K-pop band who were suddenly everywhere, their latest hit. Kerrand frowned.

“You can’t stand it either?” I asked.

“I didn’t dare say anything.”

We laughed. I turned off the radio. I should have left it alone. The silence cast an icy chill. The girl’s boyfriend came into the kitchen. He made himself a coffee, scratched his nose and left. I caught Kerrand watching me, taking him by surprise. He held my gaze, I looked away. He probably thought I was pathetic. Jun-oh called and I answered. I tried to sound happy to hear from him. He’d got the modeling contract. He was coming home in two days to pick up his things. Could he see me? Of course. He’d have to call me first. Let me know he was coming, not just show up.

When I hung up, Kerrand was at the table, his sketchpad open. He leaned over, pushed back his hair, placed the tip of the pencil on the paper. One line, then another, I saw a roof emerge. A tree. A low wall. Seagulls. A building. It didn’t look like the houses in Sokcho, it was all brick. He put grass around it. Lush grass, not like the grass here, burned by summer sun and winter frosts. Then a leg. Thick legs, cows’ legs, then whole cows. A port in the distance, flat land, windswept valleys. He created some shadow to finish it, rubbing with the pencil lead. He tore off the sheet from the sketchbook and handed it to me. Normandy.

“Keep it,” he said. “You can have it.”

STRAPPED TIGHTLY into her work apron, my mother was shucking shellfish. Not speaking. Her tools were strictly off-limits to me so I stood beside her and gazed into the fish tanks. I was still on her bad side. After a while, she peeled an apple, handed it to me.