“How would you like a dog?” Winston asked, picking Muffin up and plopping her down on his lap, “she behaves very well. Go on, give her a pat.”
Woo-jin placed a timid hand upon Muffin’s head and patted. His affection was awkward and unnatural.
“Ain’t you never pet a dog before?” Winston asked.
“No. Dog in North Korea called sweet meat. Very delicious. It is said that dear leader Kim Jong-il ate two dogs per day.”
Winston’s brow furrowed as he took Muffin back and placed her on his lap. Woo-jin smiled.
“I no eat dog, but maybe my comrades do.”
“Yeah, so no pet doggie for you.”
“No.”
“Do I smell fresh… bodies in the pile?”
“Russians. Killed on this road,” Woo-jin pointed up at the I-75 overpass, “south of here. Look like shotgun.”
“I see,” Winston said, knowing that he was responsible for their deaths.
“I got go before they look for me.”
“Take care.”
“Be careful, Winston. Don’t be here after dinner. My new partner very bad.”
“The one-eyed dude?”
Woo-jin nodded, “he a prick,” and solemnly walked away, grabbing the canvas sack along the way. Winston and Muffin watched him go. When he was out of sight, Winston grabbed the provisions and rifle, placed Muffin onto the hoodie-sack, and scooted up underneath the concrete overpass to the ledge where he had first met Jimmy (his stuff was still there). He had time to kill, so he settled in to rest, laying on his back and relaxing his head on the goodie-filled hoodie. Muffin climbed on top of him and settled on his chest. He stroked her fur for a moment until they both fell asleep.
May watched Woo-jin traipse back through the front gate. It was an hour after his trash partner with the one eye had come back. She also watched them leave together shortly after lunch. His demeanor was certainly different then — somber and subdued — than it appeared now — a smidgen happier. She even saw him glance out into the woods where he had just come from, confirming, in her mind, that Winston was out there ready to come home. She was eager to be with her man, but she was forced to face the fact that she must wait until lights out, and he had to somehow shift the heavy boxes of drones out of the way of their door without making noise.
The drone and nuclear backpack were put away this morning after the demonstration, and the main barn door was now guarded. She could sometimes see the guard through the slit that faced the house when he shifted his position, but one of her duties when Winston was out was to make sure the window he came back in was unlocked. She unlatched the apartment door and opened it slowly to find four rows of boxes stacked three high. She placed gentle pressure on one stack just to see if she could move it. At first, the boxes didn’t budge, but as she continued to apply pressure, the boxes slowly moved, first an inch, six inches, and then a foot, until the stack stopped at about eighteen inches past the others, giving her just enough room to wiggle her way through the slight opening. She popped out into the barn, and quickly and quietly shifted and restacked the boxes. It was heavy work, but it was also gratifying. The final three boxes left only an inch between the edge and the door opening. She looked across the room to find that the window’s latch was locked. She shuffled slowly across the barn floor to the window, unlatched it, and made her way back to the safety of the apartment. She sat on the bed feeling exhilarated — she now understood how Winston must feel when he was outside.
Without much to do, or anything other than Amadeus’ cat food to eat, she leaned her back against the wall and opened On the Waterfront, intent on finishing it by the time Winston came home. She was quickly reminded that it was that time of the week when the PLA’s portable toilets were emptied as the sewage vacuum truck parked next to the barn slurped loudly, swallowing the liquefied contents. Still, May put the book to her face and delved back into the story.
Woo-jin, feeling good about seeing his American friend Winston, sauntered back into the camp and momentarily lost control of his senses when he caught himself staring out past the razor-wire fence, searching the woods. He wondered where Winston slept. Surely, it couldn’t have been anywhere nearby since the PLA occupied Georgia from Atlanta on south. He constantly overheard fellow soldiers triumphantly bragging about violent clashes with Americans while out on patrol, and the varied ways that they killed them. After all, Major Chaek had given the order to kill any and all Americans. Woo-jin was saddened as he thought about a recent story from his tent-mates about the prisoners behind the store, how the soldiers spit and defecated in the food scraps that they fed the captives, and how these soldiers laughed at the terrible things they did.
He shook the imagery out of his head and turned his thoughts to Seul-ki, whom he prayed to marry after the war, and rinsed the rank canvas sack in Robin Lake. As his mind played out scenarios of his reunion with Seul-ki, he walked back to his tent, which he shared with three other low songbun North Korean soldiers. He was anxious to rid himself of the sack, a constant reminder of his low standing. As he entered the tent, Dong-joo looked up at him. He was alone, sitting on Woo-jin’s cot with Seul-ki’s photograph in his hand, which meant that he had surely searched his belongings for it. Woo-jin dropped the canvas sack.
“Give me that,” Woo-jin asserted.
“This is the girl you swoon about?” Dong-joo asked, “she is homely, like a boy.”
Woo-jin, raging, edged closer to Dong-joo, who warned, “I wouldn’t,” and motioned that he would tear the photo.
“She looks familiar to me, but I can’t quite place her face.”
Woo-jin prayed that Dong-joo wouldn’t remember Seul-ki, for recalling her meant recalling how he had lost his eye, and unquestionable retaliation.
“Maybe I seen her face on a can of silkworm pupas?”
Woo-jin burst out in uncontrollable laughter, and Dong-joo couldn’t help but join him. But Woo-jin’s laughter was a ruse, and the moment Dong-joo made the mistake of wiping the tears from his eyes, Woo-jin pounced on him like he had that fateful day he had taken Dong-joo’s eye. Woo-jin simultaneously seized Seul-ki’s photo from Dong-joo’s hand and wrapped his fingers tightly around the thief’s neck. Dong-joo flailed his arms wildly and connected with Woo-jin’s face, exclaiming, “there! That’s what I was looking for! There’s the soldier! Fight me!”
With that accusation, Woo-jin leaned back in embarrassment. He didn’t want to be a soldier. He didn’t want to fight Dong-joo. He didn’t ask to be a part of this war. He didn’t desire to take anyone’s life. As Woo-jin hovered over Dong-joo, relieved he had Seul-ki’s photo, Major Chaek burst into the tent.
“What is this?” the Major shouted.
Dong-joo and Woo-jin sprang to attention, standing as straight as arrows, their eyes glaring forward.
“What is this contraband?” he demanded to know of Woo-jin. Major Chaek ripped Seul-ki’s photograph from Woo-jin’s hand, the same way he had ripped it from Dong-joo’s hand only moments ago. Major Chaek gazed at the photo for a moment.
Woo-jin didn’t know how to answer the question. It was well known that personal items from home, such as photographs and letters, were strictly forbidden, though many of the PLA soldiers possessed said items.
“I asked you a question!”
“A photo of a girl, Major!” Woo-jin replied.