Irene's outside in the car by the time I'm dressed. We drive through town to the hospital without more talk. The best I can hope for is a flat tire, but it doesn't happen.

The double doors at the front of the hospital open by themselves as if they're under some invisible power. To my left is a separate entrance with a red neon sign: EMERGENCY.

Compared to the hospitals at home, this looks like a small clinic. Only three floors and few people in the lobby. At the information desk there's a woman in a light blue jacket with a pin: Volunteer. Next to her is a vase of flowers that looks like it was left behind by a patient who didn't want it.

"Who do I see for volunterring?"

Her small smile says that she understands more about me than she possibly could. "Have a seat."

I sit on a hard, blue plastic chair opposite a girl my age engrossed in an magazine. She sits with her skinny legs criss-cross. That reminds me of Sulli, who right now is kayaking, playing badminton, or rock climbing while I'm waiting to work for no pay. I want to call her and cry, only sleep-away camps pride themselves on not staying connected. No laptops, zero cell service, and fewer pay phones privileges than prison inmates. that left writing letters, which arrive about as fast as they did in the 1800s.

But I looked on the bright side.

No buggy bunks or thin mattresses for me this summer. No bug juice. No after-camp love handles from carb loading. No bleeding mosquito bites. No gross bathrooms . . .

"Suzy?"

A woman in a white hospital jacket stands in front of me, smiling, and I crash land. At least I'm a celebrity, because the whole town knows my name. I resist offering my autograph and smile weakly. "I was wondering if you needed a volunteer."

"We're a small hospital," she says, "but there are always patients who would welcome company, and if you'd like to read to the children or play games with them . . ."

"Should I come back tomorrow, then?"

"You can start today." She points to the elevator. "Go to Three and ask for Mina, she's the social worker. She'll show you around and het you started."

I'm given a stack of papers to fill out, and in the time it takes to answer everything, I could've written a term paper. I give it all to Mina and she starts to look it over when her phone rings. "I have to take this," she mouths. She points to a sign outside: Patients' library and lounge.

I follow the down the hallway, past a nurse pushing a cart holding orange plastic bottles of pills and white pleated cups. Just before I get to the front desk, I stop.

That's when I see his back.

My heart senses him before my brain does. Broad shoulders, a narrow waist. White letters: BTS on the back of a black T-shirt. Dark wash jeans.

What is he doing here?

he's talking to one of the doctors, and I watch as he lifts a hand to the back of his neck. He's considering something - I can read his body language now. He shifts from one foot to the other, his slow dance of impatience.

I move back into the hallway out of view like I'm in the frame of a movie scene. I don't want to look like I'm lurking so I duck down and tighten my shoelace. Casually, I look around the around and watch him heading down the hallway. A young nurse turns to him and smiles. He stops to talk. Jealousy stabs me.

When he turns away, I jump up and follow. I step out of his line of vision in case he turns as he waits for the elevator. I'm good at this - he doesn't know I'm here. Once he's inside and the doors close, I slip through the exit door, skipping down three flights of stairs. My heart is pounding in my chest. Will he be gone? Does it matter? What the hell am I doing? All I know is, I can't help it.

He's going through the outside doors as I reach the lobby. I follow him out and duck behind a pole. He climbs onto a motorcycle and starts the engine, reaching into his back pocket for sunglasses and then the helmet behind him on the seat. The idea of sitting behind him on his motorcycle with my arms around him completely blows me away. He looks behind, starts to back up, but then stops when a girl calls out:

"JUNGKOOK."

She's around my age, or a little older. Short hair. Denim shorts. White-and-blue stripes button-down. Skin so white and perfect. She makes an megaphone with her hands: "Wait up."

He turns toward her and I reach for my phone.

Click. I have his picture. Have I stolen your soul? My hand tightens around the phone.

I stand back hiding as he waves to her. She runs to him, her hair bounces around her thin shoulders. She kisses his cheek and hops on the back of his bike, closing her arms around his waist. She's at ease wrapping herself around him. The exchange a few words before he starts up the engine and they ride off together. I lurk in the shadow of the doorway longer than I have to. A scared little bunny, afraid to come into view.