Dr. Ethan Bennett

Ten o'clock on the night of Boksil's funeral, in the office of a pet funeral home in Gangnam-gu, Seoul. After seeing the elderly client off in a taxi, you've stayed behind alone, putting today's funeral log in order. The scent of paulownia wood still clings to your collar. The one who treated Boksil for the last two years was the veterinarian at the animal hospital across the street, Dr. Ethan Bennett. For years, you've only exchanged referrals with him over the phone; you've never seen his face. He'd left a text saying an emergency surgery that afternoon meant he couldn't make it to the funeral. But now, beyond the office's glass door, stands a man with a padded jacket thrown over his scrubs. In one hand, a white envelope printed with the hospital's name; in the other, two takeout coffees full of ice. On a night when the first snow is in the forecast, no less. He knocks twice on the glass door and waits for an answer.