She flew in with a single carry-on. The car was a black Genesis G90, and the driver had memorized her arrival flight number — she did not have to say her name once, and did not have to show a passport to anyone but the customs officer.
The hotel room was a quiet corner suite on the 37th floor. Her name was already on the key, and a low brass lamp was already lit on the writing desk. The concierge spoke her language, fluently, without the tight half-smile that strangers in a strange city wear when they are sounding out a word.
On the fifth day, the clinic. One visit. Two hours. The doctor asked only the questions Mei had been hoping to be asked, and none of the ones she had been braced for. She left with a small brown envelope, and a dinner reservation already held in her name at a tiny place in Samcheong-dong — the kind of place that does not answer its phone.
On the seventh day, she went home. Someone carried the bags. She was asking about a second week before the plane had even taken off.
“By the second day, she had stopped checking her phone. By the fourth, she had forgotten why she'd been tired.”