When he woke up that morning and stepped out into the unfamiliar living room, he heard sizzling coming from the kitchen. He took a few more steps and was greeted with the smell of bacon. “What’s that?” He asked Courtie, who was busying himself flipping the bacon and eggs in the pan. 

“Bacon and eggs. You’re in America now. It’s time you got used to American food.”

“It smells good,” he murmured, taking a seat at the chair of the island bench.

Courtier looked up, its the same meat that we eat in Sam gyup sal, except you eat it with fried eggs and toast.” he said, just as the toast popped in the toaster. 

Kyong flinched, “Toast?” 

“It’s sliced bread.” Courtier nodded toward it, “Get it out and spread it with butter.” 

Kyong scrunched his nose, “Me? Why don’t you do it?”

“Because I won't be here soon and you have to know how to cook your own food.” Courtier said without looking up.

“Butter? Where is it?” Kyong asked uneasily.

“In the fridge. Get it out, get a knife and scrape it in the butter and spread it over your toast.”

Kyong stood, groaning and headed toward the fridge, swinging it open. “This?” He held up a container that clearly read ‘butter’.

“Yes.” Courtier stated, almost rolling his eyes that Kyong still needed confirmation. This was going to be a long journey for Kyong, he thought. He felt for him, he really did, but sooner rather than later he would have to go back and leave Kyong here to fend for himself. He thought about being hard on him to try and get him to escalate his time here, but then decided to be easy on him, because he would have a hard enough time here already. He watched at Kyong awkwardly spread the butter onto his toast. It was uneven and frankly, a mess, but it made his mouth turn upward watching him. It reminded him of when Kyong was a child and he watched him learn his way around putting together Kimbap, with his mothers help - his little fingers fumbling around the seaweed roll. 

Kyong took his plate of toast back around to his seat and stared at it, “Now what?”

Courtier slid a fried egg and some bacon onto his toast. “Now you eat it.” He smiled.

“How?” Kyong picked it up, attempting to bite it. 

“Well, you can do it like that, or you can cut it up with a knife and fork and eat it that way.”

 “No chopsticks?”

“You can forget about chopsticks here.” 

“No chopsticks?”

“That's right. It’s all fingers or knives, forks and spoons in America.”

Kyong screwed up his face but said nothing. The sound of crunching was the only thing that hung in the air. 

Courtier stood on the other side of the counter, crunching his own eggs on toast. Between bites, he managed, “Mmm, we need to go down to the school today and file your paperwork. They might be able to get you in soon. Maybe this week.” 

Later that day

Kyong waited, papers in hand at reception of the dingiest school in Los Angeles. It was hot, dark and poor. He could feel it in the way that his skin crawled, he could see it in the way that the student lockers were covered in graffiti, and how the seats of the waiting area had old gum plastered to the bottoms. He would rather stand and have his legs grow tired from all the waiting. The receptionist typed furiously as a messy piece of hair stuck out from her otherwise fluffy looking bun. He wasn’t used to hair like that. He wasn’t used to any of this. She continued to type for what felt like an eternity, and when he felt his inward groan becoming an outward groan, she finally said his name, “Kyong, Kim.”

His head snapped to attention and he looked at Courtier anxiously, waiting for him to walk over from the seats and speak for him. The woman looked at Kyong impatiently, waiting for him to say something, but nothing came out. His stomach was in knots. He was waiting for crowds of people to come rushing over, but the halls were empty and quiet apart from the click-clacking of the keyboard. “Are you Kyong, or not?” She asked, bored of this conversation already, and it hadn’t even happened yet.” 

“Yes.” He finally said when Courtier nudged him.

“Papers.” She reached out her hand and it took Kyong a few moments to realise what she was expecting.

She snatched them away from him when he held them up to her, flicking through the pages. “Take a seat while I enter these into the computer” She said, putting down his enrolment papers next to her.

“Why couldn’t we have done this online?” Kyong asked under his breath. 

“Because you need to become more confident in talking to people and doing things for yourself.” Courtier reminded. 

What felt like an eternity later, “You're all good to go. Here is a list of your class periods and a key to your locker. Your number 209, it’s down the end of the hall. You can start tomorrow. You haven't missed much, since we just started back after summer break, a week ago.”

Her words dawned on him in a wave of emotions. This was real. He was going to an American school and Courtier would be leaving. If he thought his stomach was in knots before, now it was Eldredge knot. Courtier placed a hand on his back, “Should we go and find your locker, so you know where it is when you come in tomorrow?”

Kyong didn’t answer, just followed. He scanned the floor, the walls, the little windows in the classroom doors. Teenagers at the back of the room pushed each other and laughed as the teacher scowled. It didn’t look too different from the school he had just been at in Korea, except that no one was wearing uniforms. That he could live with. Wearing designer was one of his favourite things. Though, maybe he should dress down so he doesn't get robbed. “I need to buy some clothes.” He finally looked at Courtier just as they reached his locker.

“But the point of this was to be minimal…” he started when Kyong interrupted him,

“Not for that reason. The opposite. I don’t want to get robbed.”

Courtier laughed. 

“What?” Kyong asked, confused by his reaction.

Courtier shook his head, “I can already see change in you. You're concerned about your wellbeing.”

Though he didn’t see how that was a good thing, Kyong’s mouth tilted upward at the mention of Courtier noticing some change in him. 

“So this is your locker. Should we open it?” 

“No, let’s leave it for tomorrow. I’m hungry.” Kyong said.

“Okay, let’s find some food, son.”

Per Kyong’s request, they found a Sushi joint and sat at a booth across from one another. Kyong’s mouth was filled with the familiar and comforting essence of rice. Courtier found it amusing how unused to any food besides asian cuisine he was. “You know, I went to school here too. In the same school that you’re going to, but one in Los Angeles. It’s where I met your mother.”

Kyong nearly choked on his food. “You went to school here? My mother…” he managed around a mouthful of rice. 

“Yes.” Courtier’s hands were knotted and placed under his chin. It was clear Kyong was waiting for more, so he went on. “My mother is American- Korean and my father is from Korea. Your mother was doing the same as you. It’s quite common for Korean kids to do some time here, you know. There are a lot of us here, if you look around. It’s not as foreign as you might think.”

Somehow the thought of his mother being here at one point, gave Kyong some comfort. And then a thought occurred to him, “Are you my father?”

Now it was Courtier’s turn to nearly choke on his food, “No. Why would you ask that?”

“Because you and my mother were close…”

“No, nothing like that. We met here at school and became fast friends, being the Korean kids - at the time there weren't many at our particular school. We stayed in contact when she went back home and she got me a job with your father.”

Kyong hit the table solemnly, “I wish you were my father.”

Courtier’s face softened, “Me too.” 

They ate in silence after that, making eye contact throughout chews.

“Come on,” Courtier said finally, “let’s get you some clothes.”