The training facility for the winter practical was forty minutes from campus by bus, situated in an industrial district south of the city where the buildings were large and low and designed for function rather than appearance. Ha-eun had been to the medical simulation center twice this semester but had not been to this facility, which was the regional fire response training center, and she spent the bus ride looking out the window at the city giving way to the outer districts and thinking about the fact that she was going to see Do-hyun do something she had never seen him do in a context designed for it.
She had a yellow medical support vest in her bag. He was in his training uniform. The difference between their equipment and contexts was visible and practical and she thought about it while the bus moved through the December morning.
She was nervous in a way she did not immediately recognize as nervousness, because it did not feel like the nervousness of her own performance anxiety, which she knew well. It felt more like the specific alertness of being present for something that mattered to someone else, the heightened attention you brought when you understood that what was happening was important in a way that required you to be present for it correctly.
She was going to watch him do the thing he had chosen.
She wanted to do it correctly.
---
The facility was a converted industrial complex with several designated training zones, each simulating a different type of emergency environment. The first-year Fire and Disaster Management students were assigned to the structural fire simulation zone, which had a three-story building with adjustable smoke levels and a scenario team that could change conditions mid-exercise.
Ha-eun found the medical support station in the designated area outside the main building and checked her kit and spoke with the senior medical officer coordinating the exercise, a third-year student named Park who explained the triage protocol Ha-eun would be operating and what conditions would trigger a call to the station.
"First-years today," Park said. "Some of them get overwhelmed by the smoke. Mild hypoxia symptoms are the most common thing you'll see."
"Understood," Ha-eun said. "What's the communication protocol for a live extraction."
Park walked her through it. Ha-eun took notes. She had a functional understanding of the protocol by the time the exercise began, which was, she found, different from a classroom understanding: the kit was in her hands, the building was in front of her, the smoke was already faintly visible from the vents.
Different.
She set up her station and waited.
---
The first extraction was smooth, thirty minutes into the exercise, a simulated casualty carried out by a two-person team working efficiently. Ha-eun processed the simulated patient and cleared the team. They went back in.
She tracked the teams as they cycled through the building.
She saw Do-hyun's team go in on their second rotation.
She could tell his team by the radio call signs: Delta Team, which she had learned from the briefing. She heard Delta Team's radio traffic through the speaker at her station, the brief, standardized exchanges of a team working in a smoke environment, checking rooms and calling positions. Do-hyun's voice was on the radio occasionally, giving instructions with the clipped precision of emergency communication: directions, positions, status updates.
She listened and worked and thought: this is his competency. This is the thing he has been building for ten years.
Forty minutes into the exercise, the call came: one of Delta Team's members presenting symptoms, requesting medical support at the side extraction point.
Ha-eun took her kit and went.
---
The extraction point was around the side of the building, out of the main smoke field but still with the smell of it. The team member was standing with one hand against the wall, breathing carefully. Ha-eun assessed quickly: mild exposure, no visual distress, speech clear, orientation intact. She ran the protocol, measured the saturation, confirmed her assessment.
Do-hyun was standing slightly back from the situation in the way she had noticed at the November drill: present, watchful, not interfering with her work.
She worked.
She cleared the situation in about four minutes and gave the team member clearance to rest but not to re-enter.
She looked up. Do-hyun was looking at her.
"He's fine," she said. "Mild exposure. He should stay out here for the rest of the exercise."
"Understood," Do-hyun said.
She began documenting the incident on her log sheet and felt him still looking.
"What," she said.
"You were fast," he said.
"That's the protocol," she said.
"Faster than the protocol assumes."
She looked up at him. He was not flattering her; he was making an observation in the same direct way he made observations. She thought about what he had said at the lecture: it's very you. She thought about how often he noticed specific things about how she worked and said them plainly, without ceremony.
"Thank you," she said.
He returned his team to the building. She went back to her station.
---
At the end of the exercise, the teams assembled for debrief while the support personnel maintained their posts. Ha-eun was approximately forty meters from Do-hyun during the debrief and could see the shape of him in his training gear, the specific stance he had in professional environments, slightly different from his usual posture, organized around readiness rather than rest.
She had been watching this version of him for six hours and she thought she was beginning to understand something she had not fully understood before: the competency and the wound were the same thing, oriented in a different direction. The thing that had made him need to understand fire was the same thing that made him exceptionally good at being in it. You could not separate the loss from the skill. They were the same formation.
She thought about this on the bus ride home, sitting beside him because the seating had worked out that way, their shoulders occasionally touching when the bus turned. At some point in the second half of the ride Ha-eun fell into a half-sleep she had not intended, her head dropping toward her shoulder without quite reaching it.
She woke when the bus slowed for the first city stop.
She straightened and looked at the window and did not say anything about the half-sleep. Neither did he.
When they got off at campus, she said: "You were good today."
He said: "So were you."
She thought about these four words and what it meant that both of them had said them, separately and genuinely, and that they were both right.
She thought: we are good at different things that belong together.
She thought: I know where that thought is going.
She went home and made dinner and sat at her desk and wrote in the back pages of her clinical journal: the competency and the wound are the same formation. She wrote: I understand this because I am doing the same thing.
She wrote: I think this is what I meant when I said in the snow that I would keep the people he carries out alive.
She looked at this for a long time.
She closed the journal.
She knocked three times. Three times back.
She thought about the bus and the forty meters and the way he looked when he was entirely in his element.
She thought: spring is coming, and I am not going to be able to stop knowing this for much longer.
She went to sleep.
---
She ran into Na-ri the following week, near the equipment room after a coordination meeting.
Na-ri was filling in paperwork, the kind that accumulated after exercises, and she looked up when Ha-eun passed and said: "The triage at the training facility was clean. I heard about it from Park."
"It was a straightforward exposure," Ha-eun said.
"Park said you had the protocol running faster than the instructors expected," Na-ri said. "He said it was the fastest he'd seen from a first-year."
Ha-eun did not know how to respond to this, because it was information she had not expected and she was still processing Do-hyun saying it to her at the extraction point, and now Na-ri was saying a version of it too. "I was well-prepared," she said.
Na-ri looked at her with the particular expression she had for saying things that were more than they appeared to be. "I watched part of your station work," she said. "You weren't thinking about the protocol. You were past the protocol. The protocol is what you do when you're not sure what to do. You knew what to do."
Ha-eun thought about this.
"That's a different kind of competency," Na-ri said. "Not more than following protocol. Just different. It means you've internalized the reasoning behind it, not just the steps."
"Yes," Ha-eun said. "That's what I try to build."
Na-ri nodded. She went back to her paperwork. Then, without looking up: "Do-hyun watched you work for the entire four minutes."
Ha-eun was quiet for a moment. "I know," she said.
Na-ri looked up. She looked at Ha-eun with the expression that was not quite a smile but had the warmth of one. "Good," she said. "I was worried you hadn't noticed."
She went back to her paperwork.
Ha-eun left the equipment room and walked toward the medical building and thought about the particular experience of being told something by someone who saw it from outside, and the way the outside view sometimes showed you things that the inside view couldn't, and the way that, when you finally understood what the outside view was showing you, it was not surprising but was instead what you had always already known, made specific.
She thought about this for the walk across campus.
She thought about it through her afternoon lecture.
She thought about it while she ate dinner alone that evening, which she did occasionally, not out of avoidance but out of the recognition that some kinds of thinking needed solitary space.
She sat at her desk after dinner and opened her clinical journal to the section where she was keeping notes about the investigation, and then did not read the investigation notes but instead turned to the back pages and sat with the blank page for a moment.
She wrote: Na-ri said he watched me work for the entire four minutes.
She wrote: I know.
She wrote: I have known for a while what I know.
She closed the journal.
She thought about spring coming and what she was going to do when it did.
She thought about the fact that whatever she was assembling had been assembling for a long time, and that the assembling was almost done, and that done meant something was going to have to happen.
She knocked once on the wall.
One knock came back immediately.
She thought about how long they had been doing this.
She thought about what it would be like when it was something else.
She thought: soon.
She thought: I think we both know it's soon.
She went to bed with this thought and held it in the quiet of the December night and let it be as specific as it was, for the first time not organizing her attention around it and instead looking directly at it, and she found that looking at it directly was not as frightening as looking away had been.
She thought: things look clearer when you look at them.
She thought: I have been learning this all semester.
She fell asleep.
---
The training facility exercise was discussed in her Emergency Systems class the following Monday, as part of the debriefing process the program ran after every practical exercise. Students reported what they had observed and what they had taken from it, and Dr. Lee asked questions that were designed to push the analysis beyond the surface.
When it was Ha-eun's turn to report, she described the triage protocol she had run and the extraction she had handled. She described the speed at which she had worked and Dr. Lee asked about the decision points. She explained them. He nodded once.
He asked: "What was the most important thing you noticed about your own performance."
She thought about this. She said: "I wasn't working from the protocol. I was working from what I understood the protocol was trying to achieve."
Dr. Lee looked at her. "Good," he said, in the tone he used for things that were correct. "That's where you want to be."
He moved on to the next student.
Ha-eun sat in her seat and thought about what she had said: working from what the protocol was trying to achieve, not from the protocol itself. She thought about how this was what her father had been trying to teach her for years, from a different direction: understanding the reasoning behind the rules so that you could apply the reasoning when the rules ran out.
She thought about Do-hyun.
She thought about how he had said, at the lecture: I wanted to understand why it went the way it did.
She thought: we are both doing the same thing.
She thought: understanding, as the goal. Not just knowledge. Understanding.
She looked at the notes from the debrief and wrote at the bottom of the page: the goal is always understanding.
She underlined it.
She went to her next class.
She thought about spring for about five minutes while the professor introduced a new topic.
Then she paid attention to the lecture.
She was, she thought, getting better at attending to the things in front of her while the other things continued to assemble in the background.
She was almost assembled.
---
Thursday evening she was at his apartment for dinner and she told him about the debrief class conversation.
Not all of it. The part about protocol versus reasoning, about Dr. Lee's response, about what she had been thinking while the next topic was being introduced. She did not tell him that she had been thinking about spring, or about what was assembling, or about Na-ri saying he had watched her work for four minutes.
She told him the medical and professional parts.
He listened and ate and said: "That's the transition. The one that takes most people several years. You're doing it in your first year."
"The protocols are good to have as scaffolding," she said. "But they're scaffolding. They're not the building."
"The protocols in my field are the same," he said. "You work them until you don't have to think about them, and then you can think about what the protocols are trying to accomplish and whether the situation you're in requires something the protocol didn't anticipate."
Ha-eun thought about the Myeonghwa investigation and whether the official response protocol had been followed that night, and what had deviated, and why, and whether any of it had been a matter of a judgment call made in the field or a decision made before the field.
She thought about Kang Seong-jin and the seven minutes.
She thought: even this conversation about medical protocol is also about the fire.
Everything they talked about was adjacent to the fire, somehow. The investigation had woven itself so thoroughly into the texture of their year together that she sometimes could not tell anymore where one ended and the other began. Their conversations about their work and their conversations about the case were the same conversation, because their choices of work had both been shaped by the same event, and the event was always present in the background of everything.
"What are you thinking," he said.
"That everything we do is connected to Myeonghwa," she said. "In ways we didn't fully understand when we chose our fields."
He was quiet for a moment. "Yes," he said.
"And I'm thinking," she said, looking at her bowl, "that I don't know what our lives look like after we understand what happened. After we've found out everything there is to find out and decided what to do with it. I don't know what we're each like on the other side of it."
He was quiet for longer this time.
She looked up.
He was looking at her with the careful, present look. "I've thought about that," he said. "What I am on the other side."
"And."
"I think I'm still this," he said. "I think this is what I am, not just a shape formed by what happened. It formed some of it. Not all."
She looked at him.
"You too," he said. "I think you're more than the thing that's driving you. Even though the thing driving you is real."
Ha-eun held this for a moment. She thought about her mother and the investigation and medicine and the specific formation of herself as someone who moved toward understanding rather than away from difficulty. She thought about whether that formation was the thing that drove her or whether the thing that drove her had only been one input into something larger.
She thought: he's right.
She thought: he usually is, about the things I need to look at.
"Thank you," she said.
He looked at her in the way that was complete attention without demand. "Eat your food," he said. "It's getting cold."
She ate her food.
She thought: I am almost assembled.
She thought: I am going to be assembled by spring.
She did not say either of these things.
She finished her dinner and helped with the dishes and went home and stood at her desk and thought about what he had said: I think I'm still this. The specific solidity of someone who knew what they were independent of what had happened to them, who could say that clearly and mean it.
She thought about whether she could say the same about herself.
She thought: I am still this. I am Yoon Ha-eun who is going to be a doctor, who moves toward understanding, who chooses to look at things directly.
She thought: yes. I am still this.
She thought: and this person knows something about the person in the next room.
She thought: spring.
She knocked on the wall.
Three knocks back.
She went to sleep.
She dreamed about the cherry blossom road in bloom.
You've reached the end of this chapter
The training facility for the winter practical was forty minutes from campus by bus, situated in an industrial district south of the city where the buildings were large and low and designed for function rather than appearance. Ha-eun had been to the medical simulation center twice this semester but had not been to this facility, which was the regional fire response training center, and she spent the bus ride looking out the window at the city giving way to the outer districts and thinking about the fact that she was going to see Do-hyun do something she had never seen him do in a context designed for it.
She had a yellow medical support vest in her bag. He was in his training uniform. The difference between their equipment and contexts was visible and practical and she thought about it while the bus moved through the December morning.
She was nervous in a way she did not immediately recognize as nervousness, because it did not feel like the nervousness of her own performance anxiety, which she knew well. It felt more like the specific alertness of being present for something that mattered to someone else, the heightened attention you brought when you understood that what was happening was important in a way that required you to be present for it correctly.
She was going to watch him do the thing he had chosen.
She wanted to do it correctly.
---
The facility was a converted industrial complex with several designated training zones, each simulating a different type of emergency environment. The first-year Fire and Disaster Management students were assigned to the structural fire simulation zone, which had a three-story building with adjustable smoke levels and a scenario team that could change conditions mid-exercise.
Ha-eun found the medical support station in the designated area outside the main building and checked her kit and spoke with the senior medical officer coordinating the exercise, a third-year student named Park who explained the triage protocol Ha-eun would be operating and what conditions would trigger a call to the station.
"First-years today," Park said. "Some of them get overwhelmed by the smoke. Mild hypoxia symptoms are the most common thing you'll see."
"Understood," Ha-eun said. "What's the communication protocol for a live extraction."
Park walked her through it. Ha-eun took notes. She had a functional understanding of the protocol by the time the exercise began, which was, she found, different from a classroom understanding: the kit was in her hands, the building was in front of her, the smoke was already faintly visible from the vents.
Different.
She set up her station and waited.
---
The first extraction was smooth, thirty minutes into the exercise, a simulated casualty carried out by a two-person team working efficiently. Ha-eun processed the simulated patient and cleared the team. They went back in.
She tracked the teams as they cycled through the building.
She saw Do-hyun's team go in on their second rotation.
She could tell his team by the radio call signs: Delta Team, which she had learned from the briefing. She heard Delta Team's radio traffic through the speaker at her station, the brief, standardized exchanges of a team working in a smoke environment, checking rooms and calling positions. Do-hyun's voice was on the radio occasionally, giving instructions with the clipped precision of emergency communication: directions, positions, status updates.
She listened and worked and thought: this is his competency. This is the thing he has been building for ten years.
Forty minutes into the exercise, the call came: one of Delta Team's members presenting symptoms, requesting medical support at the side extraction point.
Ha-eun took her kit and went.
---
The extraction point was around the side of the building, out of the main smoke field but still with the smell of it. The team member was standing with one hand against the wall, breathing carefully. Ha-eun assessed quickly: mild exposure, no visual distress, speech clear, orientation intact. She ran the protocol, measured the saturation, confirmed her assessment.
Do-hyun was standing slightly back from the situation in the way she had noticed at the November drill: present, watchful, not interfering with her work.
She worked.
She cleared the situation in about four minutes and gave the team member clearance to rest but not to re-enter.
She looked up. Do-hyun was looking at her.
"He's fine," she said. "Mild exposure. He should stay out here for the rest of the exercise."
"Understood," Do-hyun said.
She began documenting the incident on her log sheet and felt him still looking.
"What," she said.
"You were fast," he said.
"That's the protocol," she said.
"Faster than the protocol assumes."
She looked up at him. He was not flattering her; he was making an observation in the same direct way he made observations. She thought about what he had said at the lecture: it's very you. She thought about how often he noticed specific things about how she worked and said them plainly, without ceremony.
"Thank you," she said.
He returned his team to the building. She went back to her station.
---
At the end of the exercise, the teams assembled for debrief while the support personnel maintained their posts. Ha-eun was approximately forty meters from Do-hyun during the debrief and could see the shape of him in his training gear, the specific stance he had in professional environments, slightly different from his usual posture, organized around readiness rather than rest.
She had been watching this version of him for six hours and she thought she was beginning to understand something she had not fully understood before: the competency and the wound were the same thing, oriented in a different direction. The thing that had made him need to understand fire was the same thing that made him exceptionally good at being in it. You could not separate the loss from the skill. They were the same formation.
She thought about this on the bus ride home, sitting beside him because the seating had worked out that way, their shoulders occasionally touching when the bus turned. At some point in the second half of the ride Ha-eun fell into a half-sleep she had not intended, her head dropping toward her shoulder without quite reaching it.
She woke when the bus slowed for the first city stop.
She straightened and looked at the window and did not say anything about the half-sleep. Neither did he.
When they got off at campus, she said: "You were good today."
He said: "So were you."
She thought about these four words and what it meant that both of them had said them, separately and genuinely, and that they were both right.
She thought: we are good at different things that belong together.
She thought: I know where that thought is going.
She went home and made dinner and sat at her desk and wrote in the back pages of her clinical journal: the competency and the wound are the same formation. She wrote: I understand this because I am doing the same thing.
She wrote: I think this is what I meant when I said in the snow that I would keep the people he carries out alive.
She looked at this for a long time.
She closed the journal.
She knocked three times. Three times back.
She thought about the bus and the forty meters and the way he looked when he was entirely in his element.
She thought: spring is coming, and I am not going to be able to stop knowing this for much longer.
She went to sleep.
---
She ran into Na-ri the following week, near the equipment room after a coordination meeting.
Na-ri was filling in paperwork, the kind that accumulated after exercises, and she looked up when Ha-eun passed and said: "The triage at the training facility was clean. I heard about it from Park."
"It was a straightforward exposure," Ha-eun said.
"Park said you had the protocol running faster than the instructors expected," Na-ri said. "He said it was the fastest he'd seen from a first-year."
Ha-eun did not know how to respond to this, because it was information she had not expected and she was still processing Do-hyun saying it to her at the extraction point, and now Na-ri was saying a version of it too. "I was well-prepared," she said.
Na-ri looked at her with the particular expression she had for saying things that were more than they appeared to be. "I watched part of your station work," she said. "You weren't thinking about the protocol. You were past the protocol. The protocol is what you do when you're not sure what to do. You knew what to do."
Ha-eun thought about this.
"That's a different kind of competency," Na-ri said. "Not more than following protocol. Just different. It means you've internalized the reasoning behind it, not just the steps."
"Yes," Ha-eun said. "That's what I try to build."
Na-ri nodded. She went back to her paperwork. Then, without looking up: "Do-hyun watched you work for the entire four minutes."
Ha-eun was quiet for a moment. "I know," she said.
Na-ri looked up. She looked at Ha-eun with the expression that was not quite a smile but had the warmth of one. "Good," she said. "I was worried you hadn't noticed."
She went back to her paperwork.
Ha-eun left the equipment room and walked toward the medical building and thought about the particular experience of being told something by someone who saw it from outside, and the way the outside view sometimes showed you things that the inside view couldn't, and the way that, when you finally understood what the outside view was showing you, it was not surprising but was instead what you had always already known, made specific.
She thought about this for the walk across campus.
She thought about it through her afternoon lecture.
She thought about it while she ate dinner alone that evening, which she did occasionally, not out of avoidance but out of the recognition that some kinds of thinking needed solitary space.
She sat at her desk after dinner and opened her clinical journal to the section where she was keeping notes about the investigation, and then did not read the investigation notes but instead turned to the back pages and sat with the blank page for a moment.
She wrote: Na-ri said he watched me work for the entire four minutes.
She wrote: I know.
She wrote: I have known for a while what I know.
She closed the journal.
She thought about spring coming and what she was going to do when it did.
She thought about the fact that whatever she was assembling had been assembling for a long time, and that the assembling was almost done, and that done meant something was going to have to happen.
She knocked once on the wall.
One knock came back immediately.
She thought about how long they had been doing this.
She thought about what it would be like when it was something else.
She thought: soon.
She thought: I think we both know it's soon.
She went to bed with this thought and held it in the quiet of the December night and let it be as specific as it was, for the first time not organizing her attention around it and instead looking directly at it, and she found that looking at it directly was not as frightening as looking away had been.
She thought: things look clearer when you look at them.
She thought: I have been learning this all semester.
She fell asleep.
---
The training facility exercise was discussed in her Emergency Systems class the following Monday, as part of the debriefing process the program ran after every practical exercise. Students reported what they had observed and what they had taken from it, and Dr. Lee asked questions that were designed to push the analysis beyond the surface.
When it was Ha-eun's turn to report, she described the triage protocol she had run and the extraction she had handled. She described the speed at which she had worked and Dr. Lee asked about the decision points. She explained them. He nodded once.
He asked: "What was the most important thing you noticed about your own performance."
She thought about this. She said: "I wasn't working from the protocol. I was working from what I understood the protocol was trying to achieve."
Dr. Lee looked at her. "Good," he said, in the tone he used for things that were correct. "That's where you want to be."
He moved on to the next student.
Ha-eun sat in her seat and thought about what she had said: working from what the protocol was trying to achieve, not from the protocol itself. She thought about how this was what her father had been trying to teach her for years, from a different direction: understanding the reasoning behind the rules so that you could apply the reasoning when the rules ran out.
She thought about Do-hyun.
She thought about how he had said, at the lecture: I wanted to understand why it went the way it did.
She thought: we are both doing the same thing.
She thought: understanding, as the goal. Not just knowledge. Understanding.
She looked at the notes from the debrief and wrote at the bottom of the page: the goal is always understanding.
She underlined it.
She went to her next class.
She thought about spring for about five minutes while the professor introduced a new topic.
Then she paid attention to the lecture.
She was, she thought, getting better at attending to the things in front of her while the other things continued to assemble in the background.
She was almost assembled.
---
Thursday evening she was at his apartment for dinner and she told him about the debrief class conversation.
Not all of it. The part about protocol versus reasoning, about Dr. Lee's response, about what she had been thinking while the next topic was being introduced. She did not tell him that she had been thinking about spring, or about what was assembling, or about Na-ri saying he had watched her work for four minutes.
She told him the medical and professional parts.
He listened and ate and said: "That's the transition. The one that takes most people several years. You're doing it in your first year."
"The protocols are good to have as scaffolding," she said. "But they're scaffolding. They're not the building."
"The protocols in my field are the same," he said. "You work them until you don't have to think about them, and then you can think about what the protocols are trying to accomplish and whether the situation you're in requires something the protocol didn't anticipate."
Ha-eun thought about the Myeonghwa investigation and whether the official response protocol had been followed that night, and what had deviated, and why, and whether any of it had been a matter of a judgment call made in the field or a decision made before the field.
She thought about Kang Seong-jin and the seven minutes.
She thought: even this conversation about medical protocol is also about the fire.
Everything they talked about was adjacent to the fire, somehow. The investigation had woven itself so thoroughly into the texture of their year together that she sometimes could not tell anymore where one ended and the other began. Their conversations about their work and their conversations about the case were the same conversation, because their choices of work had both been shaped by the same event, and the event was always present in the background of everything.
"What are you thinking," he said.
"That everything we do is connected to Myeonghwa," she said. "In ways we didn't fully understand when we chose our fields."
He was quiet for a moment. "Yes," he said.
"And I'm thinking," she said, looking at her bowl, "that I don't know what our lives look like after we understand what happened. After we've found out everything there is to find out and decided what to do with it. I don't know what we're each like on the other side of it."
He was quiet for longer this time.
She looked up.
He was looking at her with the careful, present look. "I've thought about that," he said. "What I am on the other side."
"And."
"I think I'm still this," he said. "I think this is what I am, not just a shape formed by what happened. It formed some of it. Not all."
She looked at him.
"You too," he said. "I think you're more than the thing that's driving you. Even though the thing driving you is real."
Ha-eun held this for a moment. She thought about her mother and the investigation and medicine and the specific formation of herself as someone who moved toward understanding rather than away from difficulty. She thought about whether that formation was the thing that drove her or whether the thing that drove her had only been one input into something larger.
She thought: he's right.
She thought: he usually is, about the things I need to look at.
"Thank you," she said.
He looked at her in the way that was complete attention without demand. "Eat your food," he said. "It's getting cold."
She ate her food.
She thought: I am almost assembled.
She thought: I am going to be assembled by spring.
She did not say either of these things.
She finished her dinner and helped with the dishes and went home and stood at her desk and thought about what he had said: I think I'm still this. The specific solidity of someone who knew what they were independent of what had happened to them, who could say that clearly and mean it.
She thought about whether she could say the same about herself.
She thought: I am still this. I am Yoon Ha-eun who is going to be a doctor, who moves toward understanding, who chooses to look at things directly.
She thought: yes. I am still this.
She thought: and this person knows something about the person in the next room.
She thought: spring.
She knocked on the wall.
Three knocks back.
She went to sleep.
She dreamed about the cherry blossom road in bloom.
You've reached the end of this chapter