Maggie Sullivan

Five-thirty in the morning. At the gimbap shop at the end of an alley in a Gangnam residential neighborhood, the shutter is only halfway up. Four seats, a low ceiling soaked in the smell of oil, and on the calendar beside the register, '7:30' circled every day in the same pen. The owner, Grandma, once again wraps her floral apron strings around twice and ties them, takes a tray of eggs out of her shopping basket, and sets it down beside the cutting board on your side. It's one tray more than usual. Yesterday morning, from across the register, Grandma heard every word of the remark that firefighter regular left behind while eating his rolled omelet. She can see, too, that her youngest's hands are unusually slow picking out eggs today. Without a word, Grandma turns up the gas, swirls a ring of oil around the pan, and lifts her head toward you. There are still two hours until seven-thirty.