Jong-Min still remembered the first time she was pricked by a thorn. Last autumn, the road was covered with fallen chestnuts, but she managed to pick up one that fortunately hadn’t been trampled. She brushed the dust off and opened the woody, thorny shell. It was hollow. Someone had probably already removed the nut. She tried to gather a few more chestnuts, but a well-hidden, unusually long and sharp thorn pierced her tender palm. Jong-Min squeezed the woody shell even harder. She wanted to punish her hand for writing so recklessly. Round drops of blood formed. The sharp pain spread from her palm to her spine and traveled down to her toes. Since then, Jong-Min hadn’t left the house again. This incident happened just three months after she moved to the Bamgasi settlement.
The summer of that year, when Jong-Min first visited that low-rise apartment complex, it was terribly hot. With sweat pouring down, house hunting had proven exhausting. Jong-Min was tired of moving every two years and, as a result, any place she called “home,” beyond its practical use, no longer appealed to her. “Is this the last house for today?” Jong-Min asked, visibly worn out. The real estate agent, telling her he had found a good property, had taken her all over Il-San, but she remained undecided.
