All I could see of his face was a narrow band. Instead of shouting, I moved closer to him. He wanted to know what I’d studied. Korean and French literature.

“You speak French then.”

“Not really.”

To be honest, my French was better than my English, but I felt intimidated at the thought of speaking it with him. Luckily, he did no more than nod in agreement. I was on the verge of telling him about my father, but I held back. He didn’t need to know.

“Do you know where I can find ink and paper?”

The Sokcho stationery shop was closed in January. I told him how to get to the nearest supermarket.

“Will you come with me?”

“I don’t have much time …”

He stared at me intently.

I said I’d go with him.

We walked past an expanse of concrete. An observation tower rose up in the middle of it, pumping out the wailing of a K-pop singer. In town, restaurant owners dressed in yellow boots and green baseball caps stood in front of their fish tanks, waving their arms around to attract customers. Kerrand walked past the window displays without seeming to notice the crabs or the octopuses with their tentacles suctioned against the glass.

“What brings you to Sokcho in the dead of winter?”

“I needed peace and quiet.”

“You’ve come to the right place,” I laughed.

He didn’t respond. Perhaps I bored him. But so what? His moods weren’t my problem. Why should I worry about filling the silences? I was the one doing him a favor. A mangy-looking dog came shambling toward him.

“Dogs seem to like you.”

Kerrand nudged it away from him.

“It’s my clothes. I’ve been wearing the same ones for a week. They must stink.”

“I told you I do laundry.”

“I didn’t want you getting blood on my clothes.”

If he was trying to make a joke, it was lost on me. I thought he smelled fine. A mixture of incense and ginger.