“No, I don’t have any information,” the waitress interrupted with a tight-lipped smile. “I’m sorry.” She turned away with her tray in hand.

Margot resisted the urge to call after her. Maybe she should try asking one of the other waitresses? Biting back her frustration, she turned to the food. Through steam from red pepper, onions, and fish broth, they cracked an egg on top of their jjigaes. Margot picked at more banchan—seasoned spinach and soybean sprouts—waiting for the soup to settle down.

How this jjigae must’ve provided the perfect comfort on a cold Korean night. She had never been to Korea herself, never had enough money to travel on her own, but through the vigor and brashness of this comfort food, she could imagine the brutality of a winter, or even a history and culture itself, that needed this kind of balm. She needed this right now.

Where was Mrs. Baek? Margot could go to church again this Sunday, but could she wait almost a week until then? And what if Mrs. Baek wasn’t there either? Then what? Shimmering like a school of the tiniest fish, she was slipping through the net.

“Have you decided what to do about Calabasas or Mrs. Kim?”

She sighed. “I feel like I’ve hit a dead end with that. Unless I’m willing to just go to her and ask her outright about her husband, there’s nothing much I can gain, especially now that Mrs. Baek is gone.” She dipped her spoon into the soup, mixing the ingredients—the clams, mussels, and shrimp, zucchini and onion.

Margot felt a light tap on her shoulder and turned to see the waitress, who leaned forward and asked, “Could I talk to you? Outside?” Bowing her head slightly, she gestured toward the door. Margot followed her out.

The fog of their breath rose from their faces as if smoking cigarettes together on break. The waitress hugged the empty tray like a shield, pressing the round surface to her chest. Margot jammed her hands into her pockets. Lint rolled at her fingers.

“You’re looking for Mrs. Baek?”

“Yes.” Margot’s chest again was a dark mortar, the pestle grinding.

“Everything okay?” Mascara clumped the waitress’s lashes into sharp ends. Cigarette butts littered the somber parking lot, which glittered with specks of broken glass.

“No.” Margot shook her head. “My mom—she’s dead.”

“What?”

“My mother is dead. She died about two weeks ago. And . . . I wanted to ask Mrs. Baek some questions about her. They were friends for a long time. She might be able to answer some questions about my mother.”

The waitress touched Margot’s arm involuntarily as if both offering comfort and steadying herself.

“I went to Mrs. Baek’s store today and she wasn’t there. She sold her store, I guess. She left. Do you have her number or address? Some way to contact her?”

The waitress squeezed the tray to her chest again and shook her head. “I don’t know if I can give that to you. I’m sorry.”

“Why not?” Margot asked.

“When she quit, she also . . . She told me to never tell anyone where she lives.”

“Why? My mother was her friend for a really long time. I don’t think it’d be a problem if—”

“Yes, but . . .” She slid the tiny cross around her necklace.

“But what? It doesn’t make sense. I don’t have any problems with Mrs. Baek. I saw her yesterday even, at my mother’s church. We’re fine. I just need to ask her some questions.” Margot’s voice grew hoarse. On the verge of tears, she said, “She’s the only person I have left right now. I don’t have any family. No one else can help me.”

The waitress closed her eyes and frowned.

“I don’t have anybody to help me,” Margot said. “Please.”

She opened her eyes and met Margot’s gaze. “Do you know why Mrs. Baek left?” The waitress pointed toward the ground, meaning the restaurant.

“She said she couldn’t be on her feet all the time,” Margot said.

“She quit when Mr. Park bought the restaurant.”

“Wait, who’s Mr. Park?”

“Mr. Park bought the restaurant to be closer to her,” the waitress explained.

Mr. Park must be the owner Margot had spoken to the other night. His eyes lingering on Margot’s face too long.

“I think maybe they had a few dates or something, but she was not interested in him. And he bought this restaurant to be closer to her, you see? He was already retired for a while.”

“Oh, shit.” Margot covered her mouth.

The waitress glanced at her watch. “I have to go.”

“Wait.” Margot touched the waitress’s elbow. “So he’s been following her, or . . . stalking her?”

She nodded. “She had to move, too. She told me not to tell anyone anything about where she lives now. When you came here last time, Mr. Park was here so I couldn’t say anything in front of him.”

“Do you know where she lives? I promise that I won’t tell anyone. I would never tell Mr. Park or anyone else. I would never put her in danger like that.”

“I—”

“I really need her help.”

“I will write it down for you before you leave, okay?” Her eyes were full of fear. “Don’t tell her I told you, okay, about Mr. Park? Don’t tell anyone, okay?” She squeezed Margot’s arm before she reentered the restaurant.

Hard breaths billowed fog. Streetlights glowed off the glass of parked vehicles in the lot.

Margot returned to the table to find Miguel slumped in his seat, texting someone on his phone. He had finished most of his jjigae.

“Sorry about that,” she said, sliding herself onto the bench. “God.”

“Something wrong?”

Margot planted her forehead in her palm. “Mr. Park, the owner of this place?” she whispered. “He’s been stalking Mrs. Baek. That’s probably why she left the store. Maybe he found her there?”

“Oh my God. Shit.”

“I know, I know. I knew something was off about him.”

“I hope she’s okay.”

“Me, too. The waitress is supposed to give me her address. She’s writing it down.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to her place—tonight.”

“What if she’s already gone?”

“I have to find out what she knows about Mr. Kim. She’s the only one who knows. I know it. I just know.”

The waitress slipped a small folded piece of paper on the table in front of Margot.

Her jjigae had gone lukewarm, but she didn’t care about eating anymore. She had to find Mrs. Baek before it was too late.

Mina

Fall 1987

WITH THE SUN HANGING LOW, A DUSKY AND MOLTEN landscape of clouds striated and stretched thin, and the dark silhouettes of palm trees backlit, Mina and Mr. Kim, on their second date, drove west in his station wagon down Olympic Boulevard, one of the longest streets in the city. It was lined with stores, restaurants, and shopping plazas through Koreatown but rapidly dwindled down to a residential area with mostly single-family homes around its intersection with Crenshaw Boulevard.

Staring out the window, Mina marveled at how much her life had changed in the past several months since moving to America, how large and strange the world now seemed in this foreign place of warm weather and cold surfaces—cars, speed, metal, and glass between people. She missed Korea and its quiet alleyways, snow melting into clear water, the mustard-colored leaves of gingko trees, undulating stone shingles on roofs, despite coups, military rule, wars, a border that was not a scar but an open wound.

And how could she remove the memory of the physical beauty from the memory of her losses, the tremendousness of that pain? Absence was always present. Thunder, bombs dropping. Now she had only this dull ugliness, this dull drone—the charmless buildings, the boring roads, the battered buses, drooping palm trees gone brown—spectacularly lit.

“Are you cold?” Mr. Kim adjusted the temperature with the dial.

“A little. I’m okay.”

“Let me know if you want me to turn the heat up some more.”

“Okay.”

“How was your day today?”

Earlier, Mina had slipped into his car, afraid that someone might see her from the store. She had been at work all day, distracted, ringing up items twice or giving the incorrect change. She had been unable to sleep the night before.

“It was fine,” she said. “Yours? I didn’t see you at all.”

“I took the day off.” He cleared his throat. “I wasn’t feeling so well this morning.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, totally fine. Just some stomach problems I sometimes have.” He sighed. “Been really busy at the store.”

“Yeah, seems that way.”

“I guess, that’s a good thing. More customers, maybe more money.”

“Or maybe just more work.”

He laughed. “Yeah, pretty much. One of these days, I’m going to own my own place.”

“What kind of place?”

“Grocery store. I’m a grocery man.”

She smiled. “You make it sound like that’s your destiny.”

“Why not? I mean, what else? The only thing I like better than food is books. But what am I going to do, sell Bibles? What kind of books do people buy in Koreatown?”

“There’s a bookstore near the market.”

“Have you ever been in there?”