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window, they saw a man back it in line with a couple of other bikes. When he took the key from the ignition, he hid it under the lip of the gas tank. Gil and Jun Do glanced at one another.
    Gil sipped his whiskey, swishing it around then tipping his head to delicately gargle.
    â€œYou don’t drink like a country boy.”
    â€œYou don’t drink like an orphan.”
    â€œI’m not an orphan.”
    â€œWell, that’s good,” Gil said. “Because all the orphans in my land-mine unit knew how to do was take—your cigarettes, your socks, your
shoju
. Don’t you hate it when someone takes your
shoju
? In my unit, they gobbled up everything around them, like a dog digests its pups, and for thanks, they left you the puny nuggets of their shit.”
    Jun Do gave the smile that puts people at ease in the moment before you strike them.
    Gil went on. “But you’re a decent guy. You’re loyal like the guy in the martyr story. You don’t need to tell yourself that your father was this and your mother was that. You can be anyone you want. Reinvent yourself for a night. Forget about that drunk and the nail hole in the wall.”
    Jun Do stood. He took a step back to get the right distance for a turnbuckle kick. He closed his eyes, he could feel the space, he could visualize the hip pivoting, the leg rising, the whip of the instep as it torqued around. Jun Do had dealt with this his whole life, the ways it was impossible for people from normal families to conceive of a man in so much hurt that he couldn’t acknowledge his own son, that there was nothing worse than a mother leaving her children, though it happened all the time, that “take” was a word people used for those who had so little to give as to be immeasurable.
    When Jun Do opened his eyes, Gil suddenly realized what was about to happen.
    He fumbled his drink. “Whoa,” he said. “My mistake, okay? I’m from a big family, I don’t know anything about orphans. We should go, we’ve got things to do.”
    â€œOkay, then,” Jun Do said. “Let’s see how you treat those pretty ladies in Pyongyang.”

    Behind the auditorium was the artists’ village—a series of cottages ringing a central hot spring. They could see the stream of water, still steaming hot, running from the bathhouse. Mineral white, it tumbled down bald, bleached rocks toward the sea.
    They hid the cart, then Jun Do boosted Gil over the fence. When Gil came around to open the metal gate for Jun Do, Gil paused a moment and the two regarded one another through the bars before Gil lifted the latch and let Jun Do in.
    Tiny cones of light illuminated the flagstone path to Rumina’s bungalow. Above them, the dark green and white of magnolia blocked the stars. In the air was conifer and cedar, something of the ocean. Jun Do tore two strips of duct tape and hung them from Gil’s sleeves.
    â€œThat way,” Jun Do whispered, “they’ll be ready to go.”
    Gil’s eyes were thrilled and disbelieving.
    â€œSo, we’re just going to storm in there?” he asked.
    â€œI’ll get the door open,” Jun Do said. “Then you get that tape on her mouth.”
    Jun Do pried a large flagstone from the path and carried it to the door. He placed it against the knob and when he threw his hip into it, the door popped. Gil ran toward a woman, sitting up in bed, illuminated only by a television. Jun Do watched from the doorway as Gil got the tape across her mouth, but then in the sheets and the softness of the bed, the tide seemed to turn. He lost a clump of hair. Then she got his collar, which she used to off-balance him. Finally, he found her neck, and they went to the floor, where he worked his weight onto her, the pain making her feet curl. Jun Do stared long at those toes: the nails had been painted bright red.
    At first, Jun Do had been thinking,
Grab her here
,
pressure her there
,