I crossed my arms and waited for an explanation. At last, my grandmother answered my question.

“It was your grandfather,” she said with a little flick of her head towards him. “He begged and cried for three days until she finally gave in.”

I glanced at my grandfather, who cleared his throat and turned his head away, trying to salvage the remnants of his pride.

When I wouldn’t give in and agree to the marriage, my grandparents told me to go cool off. Dojin and I went to the place we felt the most comfortable: the woods. As we were walking, I gave him an earful.

“What’s so great about marriage? All I ever see my grandparents do is argue. ‘You fart too loud, your feet smell, your snoring is knocking my teeth loose!’ And you should hear what my grandmother has to say!” I gave an exasperated grunt.

“My parents still hold hands when they go for walks,” Dojin said quietly.

I turned to him, annoyed. Why wasn’t he backing me up on this?

“I know! Your parents are wonderful! But they’re the exception, you know that!” Dojin was flicking feather grass with a stick. “And why didn’t you say anything back there? You just sat there silently with your head down!”

I stared at him intently as he pressed his lips firmly together. “Dojin?”

“Sera,” he began, “there’s something I’ve been wanting to say to you. It’s… something I’ve wanted to say for a very long time. I-I…”

I stared at him in confusion, but before he could get the words out, the ground began to vibrate. A distant rumble like muffled drums turned to a thunderous roar as the hooves of a hundred horses beat the hard-packed dirt, galloping past the woods towards the village.

It was the Beggars’ Clan, a band of marauders who had been terrorizing the local villages for the last few months.

Things hadn’t always been that way. Since the beginning of the famine, this clan used to be different from the others. They had mostly raided wealthy families, leaving the villages alone.

But it was rumored that the leader had died, or perhaps had been killed by his successor: a young warrior who called himself The Tiger of the Mountain. The trail of blood and ash he left in his wake gave him a reputation for brutality.

On that day, we witnessed it firsthand.

By the time we’d run back to the village, it was near sundown. We smelled the smoke first, then saw the flames, and as we got closer, we heard the cries of the villagers.

Dojin and I hid behind clay jars and saw young, sobbing women bound with rags tightened over their mouths. At their feet lay the bodies of their husbands and parents with their throats sliced open, their blood blackening the dust. We spotted my grandparents and Dojin’s parents huddling together with the other remaining villagers.

A tall man strode past the bodies, stepping over them as he would fallen logs. His sunken cheeks and eyes made his features sharp, as if an eon of rain and wind had chiseled them from a block of granite. A large hand with long, knotted fingers rested on the pommel of the sword strapped to his belt. Draped over his shoulders was a cloak made from tiger hide.

I gripped the only weapon I had—my hunting dagger. Just ten paces separated me from the Tiger’s throat, but before I could do anything, one of his men approached him. This man was older, perhaps in his late thirties, with a full beard and round cheeks that looked like coarse leather.

“This is not what you promised,” he growled. “The villagers were not to be harmed!” His voice sparked a memory, something familiar that flitted away like a firefly in the dead of night.

The Tiger paused in his steps. “You’ve taught me well over the years, Mong-ju, and for that, I will forgive you this once. But my patience has limits. Do not test me again.”

As the Tiger turned to leave, the man shouted. He took out his axe and whirled, but before the blade could land, the Tiger had spun, unsheathed his sword, and buried it to the hilt into the man’s chest.

***

Colleen appraised me stoically. She was trying to remain calm, but I could see the worry in her eyes.

“So… that man… Was he your father?” Her pen remained hovering over her notepad.

Everything I had told her was the truth… except that last part.

The man did not pull out his axe. Not then. He was looking around frantically as if he was searching for something. That, and… despite Dojin’s protests, I did take those ten paces.

Well… I only made it nine, because the Tiger had whirled and grabbed my throat before I could take the tenth. In one motion, he threw my body to the ground, knocking the wind out of me. Then he grabbed my hair, lifted me to my knees, and pressed his sword against my neck.

“Noo!!” the man cried as he took out his axe. He sprinted towards us, but the other marauders set upon him, slicing him to the bone before he could reach us.

From our left, another marauder shouted. I turned to see Dojin sprinting towards us with his hunting dagger ready. Just as he went to throw it, the marauder’s sword arced upward and slashed his belly open. He collapsed to the ground as his dagger streaked past the Tiger’s face.

“Dojin!! Dojin!!” his mother cried out.

The whole time, the man was crawling toward us. “Please… Please…” he was saying, over and over and over again as if caught in some nightmarish loop.

The Tiger clenched my hair tighter and tilted my head back, exposing my bare throat.

“Is this the daughter you told me about all those years ago? She is, isn’t she? I’m glad you got to see her, Mong-ju… before I slit her open like a cheap whore.”

The last things I remember of that miserable life were that man crying out in agony and Dojin’s body as his life drained into the dirt. Then, finally, there was the cold steel slicing through my skin and tendons.

And if I’d told Colleen all this, she really would have had me committed. So this little secret? I decided to keep it all to myself.

“Yes,” I said. “He was my father.”

***

Night school took place every Tuesday and Thursday night in the basement of my apartment building. There were seven of us in the class, all tenants of the place: Mr. Diaz, the ever-patient instructor, whose fondness for his students is matched only by his love of cardigan sweaters; Mrs. Rita Carmona, a young widow, who was pursuing her life-long dream of being a cosmetologist; Mr. and Mrs. Azarian, a young couple from Armenia expecting their first child; Mr. Tran, a retired ballroom dancer from Vietnam; Mr. Esso, an aspiring accountant from Nigeria; and of course, me.

Together with Donnie, these people became my family.

After the incident with Maria, I wandered around the city, covered in dirt and my hair a tangled mess. I don’t know how long this lasted. Maybe a day… maybe ten.

All I know is one evening, as the sunset was tinting everything cinnamon, I stopped in front of a three-storey brick building with a sign that read “$500 Move-In Special.” There were countless other apartment buildings just like it in the city, but this one had freshly planted flowers by the front stoop and on the windowsills. Maybe that’s why I stopped that day. You don’t often see flowers around here, just glass, concrete, and black steel.

Or maybe it was the sound of the flapping wings of a sparrow behind me. I turned to see only a yellow sheet of paper fluttering in the wind, posted on the bulletin board in front of the building.

Stepping onto the concrete stoop, I peered at the piece of paper with its funny writing that I couldn’t decipher. But I didn’t care about that. My eyes were fixed on a faded photo of the happiest group of people I had ever seen. They were so beautiful I wanted to cry.

“It’s our GED class,” a voice said. “You’re welcome to join us if you’d like.”

I swiveled with my hands raised, ready to vaporize whoever it was that had snuck up on me, silently berating myself for letting it happen. It was a large man with a round face and a mustache framing a warm smile. He was neatly dressed in a cardigan sweater.

“There’s no charge. Just a group of friends with a common goal,” the man said, his smile never leaving his face.

“What’s a… GED class?” I asked cautiously.

“It’s where you learn things like math, science… and English.”

“I speak English good enough,” I said defiantly.

“I can see that,” he said. That stupid grin never left his face.

“But… I don’t read… or write too good.”

“Like I said, you’re always welcome to join us.”

I backed away from him slowly, then headed down the sidewalk with quick steps. Before I got to the corner, I peeked over my shoulder at the man. He gave me a small wave before going into the building.

I waited for a few moments before sneaking back. From outside, I heard voices and laughter coming from the street-level windows. Getting down on all fours, I saw the large man sitting at a rectangular table with the people in the photo, surrounded by books, paper, and pens.

The man noticed me, gave me another dose of that warm smile of his, and motioned to an empty seat. The gesture made the others turn, and when they saw me, they waved to me enthusiastically to come join them.

But I didn’t. I just sat there and watched until the meeting ended.