I bike to the hospital to see how Tae is doing, even though I'm off for the weekend. I stop at the library to pick out books for him and then make my way along the hall to his room.

The walls of the children's wing are decorated with crayon drawings done by the kids. I love the spontaneous way they express themselves and the youth in their work. the pictures of happy kids are oversized, filling the paper with images of themselves and their families with zany ear-to-ear smiles. In one, the sun is the size of a basketball with straight lines like spokes of a wheel poking out in all directions. The colors are bright and bold, the free and open.

Then there are the sad kids, the troubled ones. Their figures small and cryptic. There's a darkness in their eyes, as if their creativity is locked inside a prison of pain.

I get to Tae's room and thinkI'm in the wrong place. The balloons at the foot of the bed are gone. So is the stuffed animals surrounding his TV. Everything is lifeless and clean. I check the number next to the door.

It's not the wrong room.

It's like he never existed.

I run to the nurse's desk. "Jisoo, where's Tae? What happened?"

She looks at me sympathetically. "Back in the ICU, Suzy." she says in a whisper. "There were complications."

"Like what?"

"He started having seizures and vomiting."

I'm not a doctor and I don't understand this, but her face tells me all I have to know. "What's going to happen to him?"

She shakes her head. "We just don't know. It's hard to tell at this point."

"He's just a little boy."

She reaches out and touches my hand. "I know, Suzy. It's never easy working here, especially in Pediastrics."

I walk back into his room and sit in the chair near the empty bed, my arms crossed over my chest, my eyes closed. Finally, I get up and walk to the window. Birds are flying around as if they smell food and is ready to swoop down, making me think of the pterodactyls. One creature surviving at the expense of another. The coldness of nature. Where does a little child fit in? To whom would he fall prey?

Just outside the door I see Jungkook. Why is he here? He steps into the room and looks around.

"Where's Tae?"

He's been caught off guard, setting off a rush of nervousness and uncertainty in me.

"I . . . He's back in the ICU, I heard."

His eyes are shadowed with worry. "Since when?"

"This morning . . . He started having seizures."

I expect to hear him say something reassuring to give me hope; instead he disappears into the hallway.

° ° ° ° ° ° 

On my way out I pass a church. I've never been inside it. I can't remember the last time I was in church. Now I should be fist in line at confession.

You're a thief, Suzy.

Is this my punishment?

I pull open the door of the heavy wooden doors. No white clean rooms and life-support machines here. The room is bathed in warm, golden light. Candles flicker on the alter. Diffused light pours through a stained glass window. I feel like I'm inside a painting.

I slide into a cool bench, lean back, and close my eyes. This has to do with serenity than religion. I think of sanctuary and the power of prayer.

Is there anything I can do to help him? Some people are convinced that praying for others can heal them, even if you don't know them personally. Others swear it makes no difference. What would Irene say? Science, science, fiction, or in the middle?

What do I know is that science and proof are apart from believing and, hoping so, I focus on Tae's skin and hair, his angelic face, his innocence, and all the life ahead of him. I have to do this, I have to help. I can't just stand there helpless and watch a child die without trying, no matter how pathetic my help is. I close my eyes shut, summoning up all the power in me to will him to get better. The alternative is unthinkable.

Tears fill my eyes. Only now it's not just about Tae making it, it's about how everything will turn out in my life too, even though I know that's selfish. I want to draw on all the power in the universe to make him better so that he can go home. I want to make my parents love me too and I want to have a real home to go back to and a real life again.

I want to fix everything at once.

I ask for help as hard as I can as if there's a giant healing machine you can call to fix your problems at once and make them disappear. I want to fix the road ahead and make it freshly paved without any bumps so everything in life will be smooth and easy and filled with joy. I don't care if that sounds like total make believe.

It's what I want.

I curl up on the bench and sink into a cocoon of calm. I don't want to leave the protected world of the chapel. I close my eyes, and then the dreams come.

I'm on my bike pedaling quickly, trying to ride up into the sky like ET, fighting gravity, only I can't lift off and get away. The police are there, only they're wearing masks on their faces like doctors in surgery. Black curtains surround me, only they're not curtains, I realize; they're monks in dark robes holding crosses. They surround me. They're humming something in a strange language. It's so muffled I can't make it out. I can't understand anything because I am now underwater.

My eyes open. Day or night?

I get to my feet finally and walk to the door, unsteady. I squint in the harsh hallway lights that never shut off, whether it's day or night. The air smells of Lysol, old people, and sickness. The magic doors spring open by themselves, as if a ghostly presence behind them is watching. I step outside, released into sunshine and warmth.

I bike home along the beach still numb from sleep, studying the clouds to explain the ever-changing mood of the sky. Then there's Yoongi, and the same anxiety washes over me. The stolen picture. What do I do? He's wearing a black shirt instead of a colored one. An omen? I should've turned off and gone another way. I'm not ready to see him. I didn't prepare what to say or how to act. There are no distractions now. No model to hold our attention.

How can I smile and pretend everything's the same? I still haven't had the chance to tell him I saw his paintings and how much I loved them. I'm trapped. I start to pedal away, but he turns and calls out to me.

"Suzy."

The flitting butterfly caught in the net. Come up with something, anything, I tel myself. I get off my bike and slowly make my way to his chair, dropping down next to him in the sand. Jimin looks up at me expectantly. Can he read faces?

Yoongi is working on a new painting. It's darker, more stormy. I'm filled with wonder. how does he do it? Is it something I can learn?

"Your paintings are so alive. I wish I could paint like you."

He reaches out and touches my hand. "When it works, it's wonderful. When it doesn't. . ." He waves his hand out helplessly. "You know the saying?"

I shake my head.

" 'Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.' Beautiful, right?"

I nod, eyes tearing up. "Yes . . ."

I'm almost afraid to speak. Yoongi glances at me and hesitates. He narrows his eyes, worried. He turns back to his painting and we sit there for a few minutes without talking. He's using a new brush. Maybe that's for painting with a different mood.

"Tell me," he says, finally.

I shrug, hugging my knees. He stops painting and turns to me, his eyes narrowed, curious. I tell him about Tae. I need to talk.

"Children have energy, strong spirits, great resources," he says, slowly and deliberately. "Nature wants them to survive. By instinct, they fight. And there is . . . healing."

I look up, into his eyes. "Really?"

He nods and turns back to his painting, lightly touching the end of the brush to the canvas as if it's a test to see how faint he can make the color. For the first time I wonder if Yoongi has a family and children of his own. Is his wife alive? What if she isn't? Would asking him make him sad? I don't want to pry. If he wanted to tell me, he would.

Instead I take deep breaths. I focus on his canvas. "Have you sold a lot of paintings?"

He shrugs. "I sell some, I give some away. And you?"

I roll my eyes. "No one wants to buy any of my paintings. Not yet, anyway."

"I'll be your first client. When you're ready.'

Now I can't think of anything but the painting of Jungkook and I'm totally consumed with guilt. What if Yoongi needed the money from a sale? What if he can't afford to buy food now? He's retired; maybe he doesn't have much money. I didn't think about anything like that, all I thought about was myself. I turn away slightly. It feels like something's stuck in the back of my throat and I can't swallow. I wish there was someway to fix what I did. He looks at me curiously for a moment and then turns back to his canvas.

"Yoongi . . ." This may just end our friendship, but if I don't tell him, I'll never be able to spend time with him again without feeling guilty, and I know he'll figure it out and hate me more for not telling him.

He turns to me.

"I did something terrible and I wouldn't blame you if you never spoke to me again."

He furrows his brows together.

"I went to see you paintings in town."

"Yes?"

"I'm really sorry about this, yoongi, I swear. I'll give it back."

"Give what back, Suzy?"

"The painting - of Jungkook. I . . . I stole it off the wall."

"You stole the painting in the gallery?" His face darkens and he looks at me in disbelief, as though he's getting the facts straight in his mind. The change in his voice signals Jimin, who looks up suddenly, as if he has to take everything in.

"Yes . . . I did."

He purses his lips. "So you are our little town thief."

"I am so, so sorry, Yoongi. I know it was wrong and I shouldn't have done it and I'll give it back, I swear."

He sits silently, as if in judgement, and then nods his head as if some understanding has come to him. Just as quickly the darkness lifts and his face softens into an easy smile. He throws his head back and laughs, a deep, throaty laugh.

"What's so funny, Yoongi? I stole your painting. That was awful of me."

"Why did you do it, Suzy? Tell me."

"I had to have it. I wanted to paint Jungkook too - it was before he modeled for us - only I'd never ask him on my own and, anyway, he wouldn't, I just know it. He doesn't even like me."

He rubs the side of his face as if he's thinking and has come to some kind of wonderful decision. "No one has ever done anything like that. No one has ever stolen one of my paintings. It's wonderful, the passion. It makes me feel . . . thrilled."

"What's so wonderful? I broke the law, Yoongi. You could have me arrested."

"Yes, that right. I suppose I could. But if you liked the painting so much you felt you had to have it, no matter the cost to you, then that's the biggest compliment to me and to my work, don't you see?"

"I'm not sure."

"You may keep it. I'll paint more pictures of him. That wasn't the first."

"I'd like to paint him too," i blurt out, saying more than I should.

"he's handsome, right?"

I shrug.

"I'll ask him to sit for the both of us again, for longer."

"No, please, Yoongi, don't, don't ask him. Don't say anything. Really, it's okay." I jump up and get ready to get back on my bike. "Thank you for understanding. I felt awful about what I did. And please don't tell Irene because she'll tell my parents. I was afraid the police would come to my house and arrest me."

Yoongi chuckles at me and shakes his head. I'm about to get on my bike and I sop and go back to him.

"Yoongi, just one more thing. The theft was never reported in the paper. Did anyone realize it?"

"The gallery owner, Seokjin, he told me right away," Yoongji says.

"So what did you do?"

"I told him I took it to fix it."

I hesitate. "But why?"

"It was mysterious," he says, nodding. "And mysteries reveal themselves, Suzy. You just have to be patient . . . and then, eventually, the layers, they peel away, and the answers . . . they come to you. Like healing."