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A pause. “Perhaps it’s time to go back. We’ve found nothing here and my contacts have run dry.”

“Then get more contacts,” Yena said.

“That costs money.”

A pause. “Take whatever you need from the safe.”

“Yes, ma’am.” There was the pad of retreating feet, then the softclickof the bathroom door closing.

Miyoung finally opened her eyes. The room was a blur of light and haze. White on white, but she picked out the shape of her mother’s lips, her nose, and her eyes.

Another wave of nausea spiraled through Miyoung.

“It hurts.” Miyoung didn’t recognize her own voice, desperate mewls of sound.

“It’ll pass soon. You are my daughter. You are smart and beautiful and strong. And you will fight past this.”

Miyoung shivered with the cold of the bath and the sharp pains that still radiated through her bones. “I’ll be a better daughter.”

“Then will you feed?” It wasn’t said with anger. Instead a true question.

Miyoung let out a sob instead of answering. It was all Yena needed to hear.

“Do you refuse to feed because of that boy?”

“Yes,” Miyoung whispered. “But not the way you think. Before I realized I could care for him, I was able to convince myself I didn’t care about anyone. But I do. And if continue to kill others just so I can live, I’ll become a monster that I don’t want to be.”

Yena was silent. So quiet that Miyoung opened her eyes to see if her mother had left. She still sat beside the tub, her face pinched in thought. And Miyoung realized the implication of her words. That perhaps Miyoung thought Yena was the monster she didn’t want to become.

“You think you’ve made a choice this last month, but you haven’t.” Yena’s voice was hard and clipped. “You are waiting, hoping for a solution to come that will give you everything you want.”

“Is that so bad?” Miyoung asked. “I don’t want anyone to be hurt because of me.”

“I thought I’d taught you better, Daughter. I’ve survived a long time because I’ve made clear choices. Even if you think they were wrong.” Yena stood. “You need to make a choice.”

With that, Yena left. Miyoung shivered, but not from the ice bath.

41

WHEN JIHOON HADone of his episodes—that’s what the doctors euphemistically called them—he dreamed so vividly he could paint a picture if he had any artistic talent.

Sometimes he dreamed of his halmeoni, how content they’d been with their simple life. He woke from these dreams with a fleeting happiness that dissipated too quickly.

Sometimes he dreamed of his parents, a fake reality where they’d never left and loved him the way parents should. He woke from these dreams bitter about all the things he’d never known and never would.

This time, he had one of the dreams he hated most, the kind that made him wake up with a desperate longing. He dreamed of Miyoung.

A red thread lit his path. He often dreamed of following a string to find Miyoung at the end. In the beginning it had been a sunny gold, but over time it had deepened to scarlet.

She sat under moonlight on a bench. Her face turned up. A smile on her lips.

“What are you doing?” Jihoon took a seat beside her.

“Talking to the moon.” She let her head rest on his shoulder. It fit perfectly in the curve of his neck.

“What about?”

“Just saying hello.”