Page 60 of The Way Back Home

Another kick. Harder.

“Ow! God, what is wrong with you?”

“Break. Now. Or I start aiming for your kneecap.”

I shove my chair back and follow him outside, my shin throbbing. We lean against the wall of the building in the dark, the night air cool enough to need jackets now, breath fogging. He lights two cigarettes and hands me one without asking. I take it. I know I should quit. My lungs already feel tight most days from the years of on-and-off smoking and the dust that collects in our cramped basement room at home. But standing here with Ryowoon in the quiet, the two of us wreathed in smoke, the muffled sounds of the town settling around us, makes the knot in my chest loosen just enough to breathe.

The weeks tumble along. School, store, tutoring, study hall, sleep, repeat. I become a machine built for one purpose, and Ryowoon becomes my only tether to the world outside of it. He walks me to the study hall and walks me back. He brings me food when I forget. He kicks me until I take breaks. He draws his engine parts beside me, silent when I need silence, loud and obnoxious when I’ve been quiet too long.

One night at the end of fall, I’m so absorbed in studying I don’t glance at the clock for hours.

I hunch over a mock quiz for the Korean language section, pencil scratching, mouthing the passages to myself as I work through comprehension questions.

A long groan sounds from beside me. “Seyeon.”

“Mm.”

“Seyeon, I’m going to die.”

“Hold on.”

“I mean it. I’m going to die right here. My stomach is going to eat itself and I’m going to collapse on this shitty desk and they’re going to find my corpse in the morning.”

“Just give me one more—”

“It’s past ten.”

My pencil stops. I look up, blinking. The study hall is empty. Every other desk sits vacant, chairs pushed in, lights off on the far side of the room. I glance at the clock on the wall and my stomach drops.

“Shit.”

“Yeah.” Ryowoon is slumped back in his chair, one arm draped over his face, the other hanging limp at his side. His notebook is closed. There’s a corn chip stuck to his sleeve. “Shit.”

I start shoving my books into my bag, cursing under my breath. Ryowoon peels himself up with a drawn-out groan, stretches his arms over his head until something in his back pops, and follows me out.

The air outside is cold. Late November cold. Our breath clouds between us as we start the walk uphill. The streets are dead at this hour, just the distant hum of the factory running its night shift and the occasional flicker of a TV through someone’s window.

Ryowoon starts arguing with me before we’ve made it two blocks.

“I’m just saying, one Saturday. One game. You can study Sunday.”

“I can’t. There’s a book I need, it’s a prep guide for the CSAT. I saw it listed in the paper and the only bookstore that has it is in Pohang.”

“Pohang,” he says flatly. “You want to take a three-hour bus ride for a book.”

“It’s the best prep guide available and the library doesn’t carry it.”

“Seyeon. It’s a soccer game. Against the seniors. They’ve been talking shit for weeks. We need you.”

“You don’t need me, you’ve got Jinwon.”

“Jinwon can’t shoot for shit and you know it. Plus Haeil bet two packs of cigarettes on us winning and if we lose I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“Not my problem.”

“It is your problem because I’m making it your problem.” He jogs a few steps to get in front of me, walking backward up the hill, his hands shoved in his jacket pockets, eyes glinting with stubborn light. “Come on. You’ve been killing yourself. Take one day off.”

“I took a day off last week.”