In heaven, if they were all dead, would they awkwardly have to see each other? Or would heaven mean that she could have two lives? Was heaven a world in which she could have them both but separately? She wondered if her brain and her heart could even handle the different iterations of her life, the many ways a song could be played. A change in lyrics, a different tempo and pace.

Perhaps thinking she was still asleep, Mr. Kim tiptoed toward his closet from which he pulled out his day’s outfit—his polo shirt, his khaki slacks. A eucalyptus scent from his after-shave, clean and fresh, filled the room, which had become a bit musty from the windows unopened in winter. With her eyes half-open, she observed him slide on his underwear and pants, admiring the muscles in his back and shoulders.

“You should keep your shirt off more often,” she said.

“Ah, you’re up.” He turned around and sat on the edge of the bed, his hand on her leg. “Hope I didn’t wake you.”

“No, I had trouble falling asleep.”

“Are you not feeling well? You could call in sick?” He slipped on his shirt.

“I wish.”

“Do you want me to find out if someone could cover for you?”

“No, I don’t think so. I’ll be fine. I have at least five more hours. I’ll get sleep now.”

He kissed her wetly on the cheek.

“Ew,” she said, wiping her face, laughing.

After she heard the locks on the front door click shut, the knob tested, she closed her eyes, thinking of him, trying to stay focused on him, them, the feel of his hand on her leg, the feel of his face beneath her fingers, now. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that this couldn’t last. Nothing did—good or bad.

FIFTEEN MINUTES EARLY, MINA GRABBED A CAN OF 7-Up for the dull ache in her stomach and made her way to the rear of the store. She hadn’t eaten lunch yet but wasn’t hungry at all, so she stashed the ham sandwich and Fuji apple that she had packed for herself in her storage bin and returned to the registers up front.

For as long as she could remember, whenever upset or depressed, she couldn’t force herself to eat. She could skip a few meals easily, unable to free herself from the weight of the sadness in her chest or the gnawing of a dolorous mind. Her emotions, like a long pin holding an insect or a butterfly into place, could control her in that way.

On her first day at the orphanage in front of a meal of beans and barley, her stomach had closed like a fist as if protecting the most vital, the most mysterious part of herself. All she could do was sip water until the nuns allowed her to leave the table after over two hours. Only after a few days of settling into the routines, the faces around her, could she finally ingest an entire meal, a watery doenjang jjigae, heavily boiled with summer squash. At her first bite, her entire body from head to toe tingled in a riot of sensations—a plant bulb buried in the most brutal winter scorched with a startling summer heat—and she had to fight herself from devouring the rice and soup like an animal.

At the front of the store, Mr. Kim, with his sweaty hair flopping and falling onto his forehead, appeared as if he had been running around all morning. When their eyes met, he flashed the most subtle yet knowing smile before jogging away to some task—a customer complaint, a shipment delayed, a bottle shattered on the floor in aisle three. Perhaps they had been understaffed that day.

She imagined him owning his own supermarket and how much pride she would have for him, knowing that he could help his mother one day. Maybe his mother could move to America, and they could take care of her together. Or maybe his mother would want to stay in Korea, but Mr. Kim could buy her a nice house and visit her once a year, lavishing her with gifts—chocolates, new shoes, and clothes.

How often did he go back to Korea these days, if ever at all? He never spoke of traveling despite his feelings for his mother. Could he not afford to take time off, or was he not able to fly freely because of his immigration status? How much could they ever know about each other?

Two bundles of green onions. Doenjang. Large sesame oil. Package of dried seaweed. Dried anchovies. Flour.

Six pack of Hite. Dried cuttlefish. Two boxes of Choco Pie.

She felt dizzy after a few hours, having to steady herself on the counter. Acid rose from her stomach to the root of her tongue. The flow of customers had slowed down, so she rushed to the back of the store, afraid she might faint or throw up.

Through the doorway of long rubber strips that slapped together as she passed through, the darkness and the drop in temperature revived her. She stood bent over, hands gripping the front of her thighs, catching her breath before she headed to the restroom. Arching her head backward, she gulped air through her mouth, worrying that she needed to go home. Maybe all she needed was rest—in her own room, on her own bed—alone.

Behind the door of Mr. Park’s office, she heard chairs slide violently on the dusty floor. A woman shrieked.

Mina froze, startled by a fear that grabbed her by the throat. Unable to approach the sound, she ran back into the aisles, searching for Mr. Kim. Near the registers, he stood with an elderly woman. As soon as he saw Mina’s face, he excused himself and followed her to the back where she pointed toward the door. He listened, then shouted, “Mr. Park.” Silence. “Mr. Park!” He tried the knob and pushed inside.

Standing about fifteen feet away at a sharp angle that obscured the inside of Mr. Park’s office, Mina heard a woman scream again. The men shouted, soon followed by the crashing sound of bodies colliding.

Mina didn’t know what to do. She wanted to rush inside, but she was frozen in place, terrified. Should she hide?

“You son of a bitch,” Mr. Park yelled from the room, panting as if catching his breath. “You’re fired. Get out of here.”

With his arm around the shoulders of a woman bent in pain, Mr. Kim limped through the door.

It was Lupe.

Mina’s heart sank. The room spun. Foul acid rose in her throat.

“Let’s get out of here,” Mr. Kim whispered to Mina. “Before he sees you.”

“What?”

“C’mon.” He grabbed her hand. “Lupe, c’mon.”

Together, they walked out the heavy back door into a cruel white sunlight. “My purse,” Mina said. “My keys.”

“We’ll get our stuff later. I’ll call Daniel and have him grab everything. We’ll get it all later, okay?”

Opening the station wagon door, Mina motioned for Lupe to sit in the front seat where she sobbed uncontrollably with her face in her hand. Red ran down the side of Mr. Kim’s jaw, dripping onto his shoulders, onto the polo shirt he had put on that morning in front of her. From the back seat, Mina searched the car for napkins, something to blot the blood but couldn’t find anything. She removed her sweater and reached forward, holding it to his head.

“I’m—I’m so sorry,” Lupe said in English, coughing, almost choking.

“No, no le preocupe. Le llevaremos a casa, a su casa,” he said.

Mina reached to squeeze Lupe’s shoulder, an attempt to say what she didn’t know how to say in Spanish or English: It’s not your fault. None of this is your fault.

Trapped in the back, unable to attend to Mr. Kim’s wounds, unable to comfort Lupe, Mina’s heart and mind raced as she scrambled to put together what had just happened. Swallowing the taste of her own vomit, she didn’t want to think about what would happen to them now, later, tomorrow. She tried to calm her breath, closing her eyes.

“Son of a bitch,” Mr. Kim hissed to himself.

Arriving at her apartment, Lupe tried to compose herself, wiping her face dry with her sleeve. Mina vomited on the strip of grass next to the sidewalk as soon as she opened the car door. Neither Lupe nor Mr. Kim noticed. For a second, Mina became distracted by a long trail of ants devouring a snail that had been smashed.

Body covered in bruises, forehead and hands bandaged, Mr. Kim lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

“What’s going to happen now?” Mina asked.

“I don’t know.” He had described how he had walked into the office on Mr. Park holding Lupe down. Upon seeing him, Mr. Park pushed Lupe aside. She hit the corner of the desk as she went crashing to the ground. Mr. Kim punched Mr. Park in the face until his hands bled. And when he reached to help Lupe, Mr. Park shoved him into a bookshelf. Objects toppled onto his head.

“You son of a bitch. You’re fired.” Mr. Park had spit the words out of his bloody mouth.

Imagining Lupe’s horror—that fear and entrapment and disgust—Mina yearned to kill Mr. Park. A box cutter to his neck. She remembered him emerging out of his office to help her while lifting cartons off the ground. The grip of a pistol had flashed at his side. Are you sure you can do this? He winked. Chills ran down her spine. Fists clenched. I worked hard, very hard. And now, I’m the owner. I own all of this.

She could break him down like one of his boxes, stuff his words back in his mouth. He deserved the worst kind of ending.

Mr. Kim sighed. “There’s a chance . . .”

“A chance of what?”

“That he’ll call the police on us.” He squeezed his eyes shut.

“You? Why?” Her voice had grown hoarse.

“He has friends.”

“What do you mean?”

“He has friends. Just . . . If he really wanted to . . . he could get rid of us all.”