Page 9 of The Way Back Home

We both go up on our toes to see over the edge. Ryowoon puts both hands on the top and pushes, the door creaking open with a soft hiss of cold air that spills out over both our faces, and for a second I forget all about being scared because it feels so good against my hot skin. He reaches inside, fingers curling around the handle of a popsicle box.

“What do you rascals think you’re doing?”

Ryowoon jerks back so fast he smacks his elbow against the metal edge of the freezer, and I don’t even have time to yelp before strong fingers clamp down on my ear and twist.

“OW!” I screech, my hand flying up to grab at Mrs. Nam’s wrist, but she’s got Ryowoon by the other ear too, both of us bent at weird angles.

“Little brats,” she mutters, and her voice doesn’t sound like the sweet grandma voice she uses when she’s ringing up candy for the older kids. “Thought you could just help yourselves to my popsicles, did you? Sneaking around like a couple of alley cats.”

Ryowoon yanks, trying to twist free, his bare feet digging into the gravel as he pulls against her grip with his whole body. “Let go, ajumma!”

“I should march both of you straight to your parents this instant,” she says, ignoring him completely, “and let them deal with you.”

The tears start almost instantly, hot and fast, blurring everything into smudges of color. “Please don’t,” I blurt in a wobbly voice. “Please, we were just hungry, I swear, my mom and dad are both at work and there’s nothing in the fridge, and Ryowoon’s—”

I stop myself before I say anything about his dad, some instinct in me stronger than the fear telling me not to say it, not here, not to a stranger. But Mrs. Nam isn’t even looking at me anymore.

Her fingers loosen on my ear, just slightly, her face tilting toward Ryowoon instead. I follow her gaze and my stomach drops all over again when I realize what she’s staring at. The bruise around his eye, dark and puffy in the daylight, worse than I even noticed back at the tunnel.

“You’re Sebeom and Sungkyu’s boys, aren’t you?” she asks.

I nod fast, sniffling, wiping snot on the back of my hand. Ryowoon just glares at her, jaw tight, refusing to answer, refusing to even blink.

Mrs. Nam’s mouth presses into a thin line. She looks between the two of us for a long moment, thoughts shifting behind her eyes. Finally she lets go of both our ears at once, and I stumble back, rubbing at the sore spot, sniffling.

“Come with me,” she says, already turning, her rubber sandals slapping against the pavement as she heads toward the side of the building.

Ryowoon and I look at each other. I mouth are we in trouble and he just shrugs, though his hands are curled into fists like he’s ready to bolt if this turns into something worse. But neither of us runs. We just follow her through a little gate at the side of the store that leads into a small courtyard behind it, her house attached right there like a little burrow tucked behind the shop.

She sits us down on the low wooden platform beside a table with folding legs. The courtyard smells like garlic and sesame oil, a wind chime clinking softly against the side of the house. Ryowoon and I exchange another nervous glance, both of us sitting stiff and still, waiting for the punishment that’s coming.

A few minutes pass. Mrs. Nam disappears back into the house, and I hear the clatter of dishes, the sound of a burner clicking on. My stomach growls loudly and Ryowoon snorts, the first sound he’s made since we sat down.

Then she comes back out carrying a tray loaded with more food than I’ve seen in weeks. Two bowls of rice, steaming. Grilled fish, the skin crispy and golden. A little dish of boiled eggs, kimchi, spinach with sesame seeds glistening on top. She sets it down in front of us without a word, then straightens, wiping her hands on her apron, watching us with her arms crossed.

“Eat,” she says.

I don’t need telling twice. My hands are already reaching for the chopsticks, and Ryowoon’s not far behind, and for the next few minutes there’s no talking at all, just the sound of both of us shoveling food into our mouths like we haven’t eaten in days. The fish is so good I could cry all over again, I probably would if my mouth wasn’t so full.

Mrs. Nam doesn’t sit. She stands there the whole time, watching us eat, the frown between her brows deepening the longer she looks. Finally, when I slow down enough to breathe, she speaks again.

“You two should never be stealing,” she says, and her tone’s stern but softened with a hint of sympathy. “If you’re hungry, you come and tell me. You understand? I’ve been running that store longer than both your parents have been alive. I watched your fathers grow up on this same street, watched them scrape their knees on that same hill you two probably tumble down every day. Nothing gets by me.”

I duck my head, guilty. “Sorry, ajumma,” I mumble around a mouthful of rice.

Ryowoon doesn’t say anything for a second, staring down at his bowl, jaw working. Finally, he quietly mutters, “…Sorry.”

She hmphs, a short sharp sound, and turns back toward the house without another word, disappearing inside. Ryowoon and I look at each other again, both of us a little unsure what just happened, whether we’re forgiven or if there’s more punishment waiting once she comes back.

A minute later, she does come back, and in her hand she’s got two popsicles, the wrapper crinkling as she holds them out toward us.

Ryowoon and I both just stare at them for a second, then up at her, then back at the popsicles.

“Well?” she says, raising a brow. “Take them before they melt all over my courtyard.”

We scramble up at the same time, nearly knocking over the tray in our hurry, both grabbing for the popsicles with a chorus of thank you, thank you, ajumma, thank you so much that has her waving a hand at us, shooing us like a pair of pigeons.

“Enough, enough,” she laughs, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “You little rugrats. Somebody needs to keep a better eye on the two of you.”