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but then a sick feeling rose in him. As the two rolled, Jun Do could see that she had wet herself, and the rawness of it, the brutality of what was happening, was newly clear to him. Gil was bringing her into submission, taping her wrists and ankles, and she was kneeling now, him laying out the bag and unzipping it. When he spread the opening for her, her eyes—wide and wet—failed, and her posture went woozy. Jun Do pulled off his glasses, and things were better with the blur.
    Outside, he breathed deeply. He could hear Gil struggling to fold her up so she would fit in the bag. The stars over the ocean, fuzzy now, made him remember how free he’d felt on that first night crossing of the Sea of Japan, how at home he was on a fishing vessel. Back inside, he saw Gil had zipped the bag so that only Rumina’s face showed, her nostrils flaring for oxygen. Gil stood over her, exhausted but smiling. He pressed the fabric of his pants against his groin so she could see the outline of his erection. When her eyes went wide, he pulled the zipper shut.
    Quickly, they went through her possessions. Gil pocketed yen and a necklace of red and white stones. Jun Do didn’t know what to grab. On a table were medicine bottles, cosmetics, a stack of family photos. When his eyes landed on the graphite dress, he pulled it from its hanger.
    â€œWhat the fuck are you doing?” Gil asked.
    â€œI don’t know,” Jun Do told him.
    The cart, overburdened, made loud clacking sounds at every crease in the sidewalk. They didn’t speak. Gil was scratched and his shirt was torn. It looked like he was wearing makeup that had smeared. A clear yellow fluid had risen through the scab where his hair was missing. When the cement sloped at the curbs, the wheels had a tendency to spin funny and spill the cart, the load dumping to the pavement.
    Bundles of cardboard lined the streets. Dishwashers hosed down kitchen mats in the gutters. A bright, empty bus whooshed past. Near the park, a man walked a large white dog that stopped and eyed them. The bag would squirm awhile, then go still. At a corner, Gil told Jun Do to turn left, and there, down a steep hill and across a parking lot, was the beach.
    â€œI’m going to watch our backs,” Gil said.
    The cart wanted free—Jun Do doubled his grip on the handle. “Okay,” he answered.
    From behind, Gil said, “I was out of line back there with that orphan talk. I don’t know what it’s like to have parents who are dead or who gave up. I was wrong, I see that now.”
    â€œNo harm done,” Jun Do said. “I’m not an orphan.”
    From behind, Gil said, “So tell me about the last time you saw your father.”
    The cart kept trying to break loose. Each time Jun Do had to lean back and skid his feet. “Well, there wasn’t a going-away party or anything.” The cart lurched forward and dragged Jun Do a couple of meters before he got his traction back. “I’d been there longer than anyone—I was never getting adopted, my father wasn’t going to let anyone take his only son. Anyway, he came to me that night, we’d burned our bunks, so I was on the floor—Gil, help me here.”
    Suddenly the cart was racing. Jun Do tumbled as it came free of his grip and barreled downhill alone. “Gil,” he yelled, watching it go. The cart got speed wobbles as it crossed the parking lot, and striking the far curb, the cart hopped high into the air, pitching the black bag out into the dark sand.
    He turned but Gil was nowhere to be seen.
    Jun Do ran out onto the sand, passing the bag and the odd way it had settled. Down at the waterline, he scanned the waves for Officer So, but there was nothing. He checked his pockets—he had no map, no watch, nolight. Hands on knees, he couldn’t catch his breath. Past him, billowing down the beach, came the graphite dress, filling and emptying in the wind, tumbling along