“Does he know where you live?”

“I moved after I quit the restaurant. I had to change my number, too, earlier this year. I’ve been hiding. I can’t walk around the park or the lake anymore. I drive far—all the way down Wilshire—to go to the pharmacy. I go to the grocery store during off hours. I’m always looking in the mirror behind me.” Her eyes opened wide. “I don’t even know why . . . It’s like he only wants me because I rejected him, because I said no.”

Mina closed her eyes, remembering the fear on Lupe’s face, how Mina had the gun in her purse at the supermarket the next day, how she could’ve killed him before she quit. She could’ve finished him back then.

She went into her bedroom, where she switched on the light. Trembling, muscles tense, she retrieved the gun holster, which she had recently moved to the drawer beside her bed. She had never intended to use it, but in the dark aftermath of Mr. Kim’s death, she had become fascinated with its power, its smell of brown leather, the way it felt in her hands. She could hear nothing but her own breath.

On the tour bus back from the Grand Canyon, the sides of their bodies pressed against each other, their fingers laced, Mr. Kim had asked, “What did you do with the gun?”

“I still have it,” she said, heart racing. “I never knew how to get rid of it.”

He nodded, staring ahead at the back of the seats in front of them. “Do you know how to use it?”

“No, I don’t. I always thought I could figure it out myself if I needed to.”

“You might want to take it to a shop and get it cleaned, checked out one day. Just in case. I could help you do that. I could show you how to use it.”

Now in her hands, the gleaming brown leather appeared made for a man—belt hooped, redolent of cowboys, the West. Although still strange and foreign to her touch, the gun animated her with thoughts of revenge. She could be anyone she wanted to be with this gun. She could be young and powerful again. In this country, it was easier to harm someone else than to stay alive. It was easier to take a life than to have one. Was she finally an American?

Mina remembered the tenderness with which Mrs. Baek fed her on that night years ago, before Mr. Kim had called, leaving her in the morning. That night, she had dragged herself to her room where she lay down and wept.

Sorry to wake you up, Mrs. Baek said. I have your porridge.

Mina had tried to stand in time to meet Mrs. Baek. But her arms collapsed beneath her.

Here, take a bite, she said, holding the spoon up to Mina’s mouth.

Turning toward the bedroom door, Mina noticed on her dresser the last printed photograph she had taken with Margot, the one of them together at her high-school graduation. How proud and terrified Mina had been that day, knowing that Margot would soon be on her own—all the way in Seattle. These past eight years, they had rarely taken any pictures since all of their time together had been working at the swap meet over the holidays. Maybe this year, they would not only pose at her store, but she would ask that Margot have the image printed and mailed to her once she returned to Seattle. Mina missed having something physical to hold.

She entered the living room with the holster in her hand.

At the sight of the gun, Mrs. Baek gasped, jumping to her feet from the sofa. The broken Virgin Mary, which she had been contemplating, fell to the rug. “What are you doing with that?” she asked. Her eyes were white. “Put that away.” Her voice rose. “Have you lost your mind?”

Mrs. Baek seemed to be talking through water, gulping for air. The holster grew heavy in Mina’s hand. A bomb whistled in her head. Her ears rang. She could smell the sulfurous earth, the blood that dripped down the head of the man, a stranger who carried her on his shoulders, the flash of red. Mrs. Baek’s lipstick was still streaked on her cheek.

“He’s still the same,” Mina said.

“Mina,” Mrs. Baek said. “Mina, please put that away.” Mrs. Baek closed her eyes, mouth trembling.

“Who knows how many people he has hurt?” Something jostled inside of her like an earthquake. Her voice was the glasses rattling in the cabinets. “You need this now, unnie. To protect yourself. I want you to protect yourself. Don’t you think you should protect yourself?”

She couldn’t lose one more person in this life.

The acid rose in her throat. A long trail of ants devoured a snail that had been smashed outside of Lupe’s apartment. The spoon at her mouth. Back then, she had imagined the thrill of killing Mr. Park. She had imagined cornering him at the supermarket. She could’ve ended him in front of everyone. Who knew how many he had terrorized? How many he had cannibalized for his own gain? How many of them had he hurt? How many more lives could he ruin? She needed Mrs. Baek to save herself.

The lust of the carnival lights flashing. The salt air and the smell of hot chocolate on the breath. She and Mr. Kim rising. A stage. But they didn’t need an audience.

And then again underneath the white glare of a lamp, they sat on that bench at the end of the pier, like strangers. The moon glowed, shimmering on the water’s surface, and she realized that life beneath a certain light—despite its sadness, its tragedies, its disappointments—was often still stirring, arousing the germ of a fresh seedling that might, with enough warmth, unfurl, like the tips of Mr. Kim’s fingers as he dropped the change in her hand.

Holding the gun holster still, Mina said, “It’s loaded.” It was the fall, nearly one month before winter. But her hands trembled like a branch pushing the green buds out of the flesh, offering itself to the world. Together, they could finish him. “Let me show you how it works.”

Margot

Winter 2014—2015

OUTSIDE OF MRS. BAEK’S DOOR, MARGOT STOOD TO the side of the fisheye, heart in her throat. Christmas Eve revelers in the next apartment laughed, blasting banda music. Sweat glided down her face, neck, and back. She knocked again, this time with more force, as if pounding on a drum. Paint flecked onto the floor. In the basement of the church, Mrs. Baek had said to Mr. Park, I’ll kill you.

Margot and Miguel had wasted nearly fifteen minutes finding a spot for their car. The evening—its voluptuous mix of sermon and song, smoke and incense, houses netted by string lights—felt urgent as if an exit had been closing, trapping Margot in the dark.

“Who is it?” Mrs. Baek yelled from a distance inside the apartment. Her voice grew closer, asking again, “Who is it?”

Margot sighed with relief. Mrs. Baek was home. Mr. Park hadn’t followed her.

“UPS,” Miguel said, startling Margot. “I need your signature.”

“Leave it at the door.”

“I need you to sign this.”

“How come I can’t see you?”

The lock unlatched. The door cracked open.

Margot pushed herself into the apartment as Mrs. Baek screamed, stumbling backward toward the coffee table, revealing a long beige slip under the same gray dove-colored robe. Margot sprung forward to help. Shooing her away, Mrs. Baek wrapped the thick fleece around her body, tightened the belt at her waist, and groaned.

“You hurt me.” She clutched her hand and wrung it with the other. She had removed her lipstick, mouth still flushed, but her eyebrows, the dark crescents, remained intact.

“Sorry,” Margot said, catching her breath. Miguel shut the door behind them.

“I can’t—I can’t do this right now,” Mrs. Baek said, squeezing her hands together, knuckles whitening.

Two olive-colored suitcases were splayed open on the floor, filled with shoes, clothes, and books. The apartment still smelled of paper and ink and dust, but the stacks of newspapers and novels had disappeared. Only the furniture and some miscellaneous items—a CD boom box, the flat-screen television, empty glass vases—remained.

“Are you going somewhere?” Margot asked.

“None of your business.”

Miguel stood by the door and shrugged, unsure of what to do next.

“If you’re going to leave,” Margot went on, “could I ask you some questions first?”

“I’m in a hurry.”

“Can I contact you?” Margot asked.

“She’s dead.” Mrs. Baek’s face grew glossy and red as she shook her head. Tendons in her neck pulsed. “What does any of this matter to you?”

“I found a safety-deposit box.” The ache in Margot’s chest, the mortar. “Some photos, photos of another family.” Tears gathered in her eyes. The apartment blurred. “My mother with another family—a husband, a child—in Korea.” She couldn’t believe those words: another family. How could her mother have kept this information from her? Why didn’t her mother tell her about this family, or her father’s obituary in the drawer? Could the past have hurt that much?