Mee-Kyong lay on her side, her face dry, her ribcage bound up even tighter with the linen strips Sun had cut for her. For the first time in weeks, she thought about the baby she had delivered a lifetime ago in Onsong, his wrinkled gray skin, his perfectly-formed fingers. She forced out small, shallow breaths and scratched tiny circles on her abdomen with her nail. She became vaguely conscious of a tapping outside her room but didn’t acknowledge it. A moment later, the door teetered open. Mee-Kyong didn’t move.
“I think she’s still asleep.” Mee-Kyong recognized the distinctive voice of the American woman. It wasn’t quite an accent, but a certain peculiarity she had picked up on last night while her hostess bustled about making tea.
Someone else spoke. “No, her eyes are open.” Mee-Kyong di
