a dish towel packed away yet. Perhaps because these weren’t just things. This was everything that Jihoon had left of his halmeoni—the woman who had raised him. And now she was gone. Somin understood why the boxes were still empty: because packing away these things was like packing away memories.
She started to reach for a box at the same time Miyoung did. When their hands brushed, she felt a spark, like static shock. It happened often when she came in contact with the former gumiho, as if Miyoung’s latent fox abilities still hungered for energy.
“Sorry,” Miyoung muttered.
“No worries,” Somin assured her. “As long as you don’t suck out all my gi, we can stay friends.”
Miyoung pursed her lips at that. She still wasn’t quite able to joke about her old gumiho life. Somin couldn’t really blame her. After all, she figured it had to be traumatizing to survive by taking the lives of others.
“Knock, knock.” Somin’s mother opened the front door. “Sorry I’m late. Traffic was horrible. I was going to take the subway, but I just didn’t want to deal with so many sweaty people. I hate public transportation during the summer. But then I guess everyone else had the same idea to drive, and it took way too long to get here.”
Somin almost laughed. Usually, it was a toss-up who was taking care of whom between the two. Her mother was all spark and energy and light. But she was also so scattered she’d forget her own brain if it wasn’t shut securely in her head. Even though Somin was just a nineteen-year-old high school senior, she was definitely the more responsible out of the two.
There was no one in this world Somin loved as much as her mother, except maybe Jihoon. They weren’t quite a traditional family, but Somin considered them a unit.
“It’s all right, Ms. Moon, we haven’t even gotten started,” Jihoon said.
“Some of us have,” Miyoung muttered.
“Well, what should we tackle first?” Somin’s mother clapped her hands together and looked expectantly at her daughter.
Now Somin did laugh. It always fell on her to take charge. “Jihoon, why don’t you take care of your black-hole room. Miyoung, can you do the bathroom? Mom, can you do . . .” She hesitated, then said, “The back room?” because she couldn’t quite bring herself to say “Halmeoni’s room.”
Her mom gave her a knowing smile. “Of course.” She picked up a box and headed to the back.
Jihoon stared after Somin’s mother as she opened the door to Halmeoni’s room. He still didn’t move as the door closed behind her.
“Jihoon-ah,” Somin said.
“Clean my black hole of a room, got it,” he said, his voice way too bright.
“Is he doing all right?” Somin asked Miyoung when Jihoon was gone.
“He’s surviving,” Miyoung said as she picked up a box and hauled it into the small bathroom.
Somin sighed. That wasn’t what she had asked. But she knew that Miyoung had lived the first eighteen years of her life shutting the rest of the world out. For Miyoung, surviving was the main goal of life.
The living space of the apartment was small and cozy. The well-used couch slouching in the middle from decades of use. Yellow bujeoks fluttered against the door frame—talismans taped around the entryway to ward off bad energy.
Somin started on the kitchen, putting pots and pans into boxes. She wondered if they should save the mugs and dishes. Maybe Jihoon would want some later? Or was she overthinking this?
She wiped her arm against her sweaty forehead and turned to rummage through the fridge for a drink. It was empty. Honestly, Somin had no idea how those two had survived together in this apartment the last four months.
The front door opened and let in the noise of the outside.
That must be Oh Changwan, the final one of their motley crew. Late as usual. With some halfhearted plan to cheer herself up by giving Changwan hell, Somin stepped out of the kitchen. Changwan was tall and gangly. With a buzz cut that highlighted his too-big ears. He hated the cut, but his strict father insisted on it. Changwan was a sweet boy with a nervous energy that probably came from the high expectations his rich father had for his firstborn son. Somin always felt like Changwan would do much better with more carrot and less stick. But she also knew she couldn’t poke her nose into another family’s private business.
“I know, I know. I’m late. But I brought iced Americanos.” Changwan was trying