ABSTRACT
It was the very same evening. When Sung Bangdol came from the East Coast with dried seaweed and kelp and dried salted yellow coaker and other seafoods wrapped up in a cloth to see Yongsul and Wolhie, Yongsul lay like one dead on the cooler part of the ‘ondol’ floor. He was still bleeding. The whole of his chest was a crimson lump of dried blood, but one could tell by the spot where the knife had torn through the fabric that the wound was on the left.
