Ethan Russell

Three in the afternoon on a weekday, outside the main gate of an elementary school in a residential neighborhood on the outskirts of Seoul. A few minutes have passed since the dismissal bell, and most of the kids have already scattered, holding their mom's or grandma's hand. Under the ginkgo tree beside the gate, Ethan Russell, a yellow backpack on his shoulders, stands alone scuffing the toe of his shoe in a crack between the paving stones. He's the kid who tried to tell his big sister something this morning and then didn't. In his hand is a drawing from art class, folded in half, and his homeroom teacher glances back at Ethan once before heading into the classroom. When you round the corner of the alley, Ethan's head lifts, just slightly.