Page 93 of The Way Back Home

From across the store, Ryowoon clicks his tongue. I turn my head, see him standing by the freezer he’s been rewiring, arms folded, looking past me at the downpour. His eyes flick to mine.

“Might want to wait that out.”

I exhale through my nose. Drop Yuro’s leash back where I found it and head for the kitchen.

There’s not much to work with. Mrs. Nam’s pantry has been cleared of most things, but there are a few cans of tuna, some dried seaweed, a half-eaten sleeve of crackers. I tear open the crackers and eat a few standing at the counter, staring at the rain through the small window above the sink. It shows no sign of letting up. If anything it’s getting worse, the wind picking up, gusts sending spray sideways through the gaps in the roll-up doors. Monsoon season. I should’ve expected it. The weather reports have been warning about it for days and I’ve been too buried in bank records and old receipts to pay attention.

I take the crackers back out to the front of the store and sit down on the floor near the entrance, my back against the wall, legs stretched out. Yuro pads over and drops beside me with a groan, pressing his warm flank against my thigh. I feed him a cracker. He crunches it and puts his chin on my knee, watching the rain with me. I scratch behind his ears and settle in to wait.

Five minutes. Ten. The rain keeps coming. I can hear it above us, a gurgling sound that makes me uneasy. The ceiling Ryowoon patched earlier today is directly over the center of the store, and even in the low light I can see the panel bowing, the seams around his caulk work glistening wet. Not good.

I’m about to say something just as I hear the low, groaning creak. I whip around just as the patch buckles inward. The tile Ryowoon sealed cracks down the middle and water comes pouring through, a gush of it, splashing onto the floor and spraying across the shelving unit below.

“Shit.” Ryowoon moves fast, dropping what he had in his hand. I scramble to my feet, Yuro skittering sideways with a startled bark as water fans across the floor. Ryowoon grabs a bucket from the courtyard and shoves it under the stream, but the flow’s too much, water splashing over the rim almost the second he gets it positioned. He curses again, louder, and turns for the back. I hear him banging around in the courtyard and then he’s back, hauling one of the spare roofing tiles he bought in last week, the thing awkward in his arms.

He sets it against the ladder and climbs, bracing himself near the top as he pushes the tile up toward the gap. Water runs down his arms, soaking his shirt. I move to the base of the ladder without being asked, gripping the sides to keep it steady as he shoves the tile into place from below. It catches, holds for a second, and the flow slows to a trickle. He reaches up and starts pulling the broken pieces of the old patch down, bits of wet plaster and warped caulk coming away in chunks.

He gets a section loose, a jagged slab of the old tile still half-attached. He grips it and pulls, his jaw clenched, arms straining as it resists. It comes free with a wet snap and he holds it out at arm’s length, water dripping off the edge.

“Hand it down to me,” I say, reaching up.

“It’s heavy. And the edge is sharp.”

“I’m not an invalid, just hand it down.”

He looks at me. That look, the one that says he’s measuring whether arguing is worth the effort. His mouth tightens.

“Get a good grip on it if you’re going to help.”

“Just hand it to me, Ryowoon.”

He lowers it. I reach up and grab the edge and instantly feel pain, a clean hot slice across my palm like a razor. I hiss and jerk my hand back, the tile slipping from my grip and crashing to the floor where it cracks in two, pieces scattering.

“Fuck.” I cradle my hand against my chest, teeth gritted. My palm is slick, blood already running down it, a thin red line tracing down my wrist and dripping off the heel of my hand onto the wet floor.

Ryowoon jumps off the ladder, his shoes hitting the puddle with a splash as he comes toward me. “What happened? What is it? Let me see.”

I look at my palm. The cut runs diagonal from below my index finger to the base of my thumb, the skin split clean, blood welling in a bright line. Not deep enough to need stitches, maybe. Hurts like hell.

“Damn it, I told you not to grab it.” Ryowoon reaches for my wrist. “Hold on, let me—”

I yank my arm back. “I’m fine.”

“Stop being stubborn and let me see it.” He reaches again.

I smack his hand away. The sound is sharp. Ryowoon pulls up short, his fingers still hovering in the air between us.

“I said I’m fine, Ryowoon,” I snarl. “Stop acting like you give a damn.”

His jaw sets. His eyes sharpen on me. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

I hold my bleeding hand against my chest, the wet heat of it soaking into my shirt, and stare at him. The words I’ve been swallowing for three days, for ten years, pile up. I can feel every one of them, a jagged edge ready to cut.

“I don’t need your help,” I say in a low tone. “And I don’t need you to act like you care if I’m hurt or not.”

“How am I not supposed to care?”

I laugh sharply. “You didn’t before. What’s changed now?”