Shelter by Jung Yun Page A

call.”
    â€œI should be here when they question her.”
    â€œYou never wanted to be around us before.”
    â€œThings are different now.”
    â€œThis,” Jin almost shouts, “this is not the reason why things should be different.”
    The sudden change in volume sends Kyung back a step. Before he has a chance to respond, a young, ponytailed doctor approaches them, tilting her head to the side like a little girl. She seems tentative, as if she overheard their argument and doesn’t know if she should interrupt.
    â€œExcuse me, Mr. Cho? I’m Dr. Keller. Could I talk to you for a few minutes about Miss Jancic?”
    It takes Kyung a moment to realize that he’s not the Mr. Cho she’s addressing. “Why? He’s not family.”
    â€œWe couldn’t track down any relatives, so we requested her records from school. She listed Mr. Cho as her emergency contact. And you are?”
    â€œHis son.”
    â€œPleased to meet you,” she says, although she’s already looking away by the time she says it. “Would you mind coming with me, sir? I have a room around the corner where we can talk.”
    Dr. Keller rests her hand in the hollow of Jin’s back, gently steering him down the hall. Jin doesn’t bother to say good-bye or even cast a passing glance in Kyung’s direction. He just leaves him there, frozen like a pedestrian in the middle of the street while everyone else speeds past.
    â€œWhat am I supposed to do now?” Kyung calls out.
    But Jin is already rounding the corner, playing deaf or dumb to the question.
    *   *   *
    Gillian and Ethan are doing a puzzle on the kitchen floor when he returns home from the hospital. It’s not where he expected to find them, still dressed in their pajamas with mugs of orange juice at their feet. He was hoping to slip in the side door unnoticed, but the longer he watches them, the less he wants to hide. Seeing them like this reminds him of his mother, how they’d sit on the floor when he was little, coloring on the backs of paper bags. It was a rare activity, reserved for days when Kyung was too sick to go to school, but too bored to stay in bed. The cold ceramic tiles felt good against his feverish skin, so he and Mae would sit for hours, sharing fat, waxy crayons from a communal bucket placed between them. Sometimes, if the mood was just right, he’d ask her to draw an animal or insect so he could color it in. But trees, he learned, were her specialty. Tall oaks and pines and willows like the ones in their yard. All he had to do was point at one and watch as she sketched out a knotty trunk or feathered out some branches and filled them with leaves.
    â€œSo what are these called?” Gillian asks. In her hand is an oversized puzzle piece shaped like a bunch of grapes.
    â€œRaisins,” Ethan says.
    â€œAlmost. Do you remember what I told you about raisins? What were they before they sat in the sun?”
    Ethan looks out the window, as if he might find the answer in space. “Grapes?”
    â€œThat’s right. And which do you like better? Raisins or grapes?”
    â€œRaisins are like grapes that died.”
    Kyung admires Gillian’s way with Ethan. She’s always sharing little facts with him, always ready with a smile or a laugh or a question. Her instincts with the boy are so much better than his own. Four years in, and parenthood still feels like a heavy new coat, one that he hoped to grow into but hasn’t quite yet. Earlier that week, the three of them made pizza together, an activity she’d read about in a magazine article and taped to the fridge. BUDGET-FRIENDLY FAMILY NIGHTS . Every time Ethan did something—sprinkle a handful of cheese or make a face with slices of pepperoni—she complimented him. When they finished, the pizza looked awful. Lumpy and burnt and glistening with grease. Still, Gillian kept saying “good