Ringing the doorbell of apartment number four, Dara shifted from one foot to the other. She was just about to push the button a second time, when the door opened. In front of her sat a ten-year-old boy, his eyes b with anxiety. In a wheelchair.

Her heart clenched at the familiar sight. The chair was an older, cheaper model than Bom’s had been, but it summoned images, just the same. She saw herself pushing it as fast as she could while Bom screeched with glee. She remembered struggling with it through the grass so they could both feed the ducks in the pond they were forbidden to go near. She thought of the time she’d forged space in the bleacher aisles so Bom could watch her cheer for a football game. And she recalled the pain of folding it up for the last time.

“Ms. Park?” the young boy asked.

“Yes, you must be Seunghoon.”

“Yeah.” He maneuvered the chair so she could enter. The agility of which he did it resurrected even ore memories of Bom, but Dara forcibly shook them off. Kwon Jiyong had been in a panic when he’d called her thirty minutes ago.

She scooted past the little boy and stepped farther into the small room to see an older woman sitting on a striped couch adjacent to the door. Obviously, this was Jiyong’s mother.

“Oh, praise the Lord,” Mrs. Kwon said when she saw Dara. “You from the school? Go down the hall. It’s the first door. My boy and granddaughter are there.”

The words tumbled out in a rush, and Dara wished she had time to soothe the overwrought woman. But she went immediately to the room indicated.

Inside she found Jiyong slumped on a single bed against the wall. He held his thirteen-year-old on his lap and crooned nonsense words to her as he gently her hair. He was still dressed in his waiter’s tux and Hayi wore a baby pink sweat suit.

Hayi was weeping uncontrollably. When Jiyong looked up and saw Dara, the relief on his face was so intense; it made her heart turn over. She longed to erase the line of fatigue and anxiety that bracketed his mouth. But she couldn’t, of course. His child came first.

Crouching in front of them, she touched Hayi’s arm to let her know she was there. The girl started and then eased her face out of her father’s neck. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy and her skin was blotchy. As Jiyong had told her on the phone, Hayi had obviously been crying for a long time.

Between sobs, the girl managed to gulp, “What are you doing here, Ms. Dara?”

“Your father called me, Hayi. He thought I might be able to help you.”

“No one can help…” A fresh bout of tears stopped Hayi from going on.

“I can try. Why don’t you tell me what happened.”

Hugging his daughter tight to his chest, as if to protect her from the question, Jiyong said, “She dropped the sauce…”

Before he could continue, Dara shook her head and held her hand to stop him. “Hayi, you tell me.”

The girl quieted somewhat and turned in her father’s lap to face Dara. She still clasped his neck in a death grip.

“I...was...helping Halmeoni…and the bowl was so heav