Chương 120: Dad Came Home

By the time Kichan was halfway through his second bowl of rice, only three strands of glass noodles remained on the japchae plate. Argaon's paw moved first. Riphiel's fork was faster.

"Those are mine."

"You had the meat."

"Meat and japchae are not the same thing." The plate slid between them, then back again. His mother looked at Kichan, ladle in hand.

"Are they always like this?"

"Until they're full."

"We'll be here all night, then." Just as she reached for the refrigerator, the keypad sounded outside the front door. Kichan's spoon stopped. Before the door opened, he heard wet sneakers dragging across the floor. Batu lifted his head from the metal basin. The front door opened halfway. His father held a folded umbrella in one hand. In the other, he clutched a crumpled manila envelope. Several missing-person flyers with Kichan's face on them stuck out of the opening. Batu got up first.

His enormous body blocked the way from the entrance to the living room. Argaon's illusion made him look like a shaggy large dog, but the outlines of long fangs showed beneath his lowered head. His father stopped before he could take off his shoes.

"Dad," Kichan called. His father looked past Batu at him. The umbrella fell to the entrance floor. The crumpled envelope landed beside it. His father took a step toward Batu. Batu crouched lower.

"Batu." At the sound of his name, only the saber-toothed tiger's ears turned toward Kichan. His body still blocked the entrance to the living room. His father did not try to push him aside. He took off his wet sneakers where he stood. One sock was soaked too, clinging to his heel. Then he held out a hand. Batu brought his nose close to its back. There was the smell of flyer paper, rain, and sneakers that had walked a long way. Underneath was the same laundry detergent as on his mother's clothes.

The smell of home Kichan had known since childhood. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. Batu sniffed the hand, then checked the hem of his father's trousers and his wet sneakers in turn. His head slowly lowered. The way opened. His father came straight to Kichan.

"Are you hurt anywhere?"

"No."

"Hold still." A rough palm touched Kichan's cheek. His father cupped his chin, then brushed his forehead, where the wet hair had dried. His hand moved down to a shoulder before taking each of Kichan's hands in turn. He spread the fingers, turned the wrists over, and pressed a thumb into the palms. Kichan did not pull away. Cracks crisscrossed the backs of his father's hands. Something white had hardened beside a fingernail--paste, perhaps, or residue from tape.

One wrist was a little swollen, as though he had kept carrying something heavy the same way. His father let go.

"I'm glad you're home."

"Yeah." Only then did he look at the table and the living room. Riphiel sat holding a fork, her long ears hidden by cloth. Argaon, still a yellow cat, held the japchae plate with his forepaws. Valkyrie clung to the rim of a water bowl, while Dust tried to drag a spoon out from under the table. Batu lay down with his back to the front door. He fitted himself squarely between the door and the family.

"Is this the family you mentioned?" his father asked.

"Yeah."

"You brought quite a few."

"I did." His father asked nothing more. His mother pulled out the chair at the end of the table.

"Sit down first. When I call, you could at least say you're coming home. Where have you been wandering around this time?"

"Taking down the flyers I'd put up." His father looked at the envelope by the door. His mother opened her mouth, then closed it. Instead, she went to heat the remaining soup. Kichan picked up the envelope from the floor. It held more than missing-person flyers. There was a notebook listing subway stations, hospitals, and shelters. Rain had blurred several pages. The phone number beneath his face was still clear.

"You put all these up?"

"Your mother and I split them between us." His mother set down a bowl of hot soup.

"Talk about that after you eat." Riphiel could not understand the words, but she had watched how many times his father's hands checked Kichan's face and hands.

"Is he family too?" she asked Kichan.

"Yeah. My father." Riphiel looked at his father's cracked hands, then pushed the last piece of bulgogi she had saved into the middle of the plate. Argaon's paw shot out. Riphiel blocked it with her fork.

"That is for him."

"If he doesn't eat it, it's mine."

"He has not even had a chance." Kichan did not translate for his father.

"Are they fighting?"

"Sharing the food." His father ate the piece of bulgogi and nodded. After that, his spoon slowed. Two spoonfuls of soup, then one of rice. As he reached for the soup again, his hand caught against the rim of the bowl. The tip of the spoon made a small sound. His father had fallen asleep where he sat. One hand still rested beside the rice bowl. The spoon hung loosely from the other. His mother clicked her tongue.

"He's been like that for days. Sits down for a moment and he's asleep." Even as she spoke, she leaned her arms on the table.

"Honey. Go to bed." No answer. She tapped his shoulder twice. On the third tap, her hand stopped there. When Kichan came back carrying dishes to wash, his mother's eyes were closed too. Her forehead rested on her arm. Empty rice bowls and greasy plates remained on the table. Wet sneakers and the envelope of flyers waited by the door. Kichan slipped the spoon from his father's hand and laid it beside the bowl. Up close, the splits between the calluses were even clearer.

A square mark remained on his mother's wrist where a pain-relief patch had been. Her hair was dry at the roots, and one shoulder sagged as she leaned over the table. The season he had been gone clung to both their bodies. He opened the material bag. The smell of dried herbs spread through the smell of bulgogi. Pale molly leaves and dried mandragora root fell into his palm. In the other world, people commonly brewed them after a cold or a bout of overwork. Kichan took out an empty pot.

"Tea first."