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word, her expression glassy, stunned by the light. Jin follows a few steps behind, supported by Lentz, who struggles to stay upright under his weight.
    Kyung isn’t prepared for the sight of his father so bloodied. He’s imagined it a thousand times—the twin black eyes, the split lip, the bruises turning an angry shade of purple—but not like this.
    â€œWhat happened? How did this happen to you?”
    â€œMy glasses,” Jin says, pulling on the hem of Kyung’s shirt. “I can’t see.”
    â€œLater. Tell me what happened.”
    â€œI can’t see.”
    He wants his father to stop touching him and answer the question, but Jin keeps reaching for him in a panic. “All right. All right. I’ll get them for you. Where are they?”
    â€œIn the bathroom upstairs. I have extras.”
    Kyung turns toward the door and runs into Connie, who sends him backwards with a shove to the chest.
    â€œWhere the hell are you going?”
    â€œHe said he left his glasses in the house.”
    â€œI’ll send someone in to get them later.”
    â€œBut he can’t see.”
    Connie pushes him again, harder this time. “Forget the glasses. There’s a body in there.”
    *   *   *
    The name of the deceased is Lyndell Perry. “Dell” for short. Lentz removes two photographs of him from an envelope and hands them to Kyung. The first is a mug shot, faxed by the Georgia state correctional system. The second is a photo snapped in his parents’ bathroom, where Lentz says he died of an overdose, probably heroin or meth. Kyung studies the pictures carefully, certain that he’s never seen the man before, but not certain if he’s looking at the same man. The Dell Perry pictured in the mug shot is young and vaguely handsome, with short black hair, pale eyes, and cheekbones that slice toward his temples. The hollowed-out man sitting on the toilet, leaning against the wall with a belt cinched around his arm—he looks like someone else.
    â€œYou sure?” Lentz asks. “You’ve never seen him before?”
    Kyung shakes his head.
    â€œMaybe he did odd jobs for your parents? Painting, maybe? Or moving some furniture around?”
    â€œI don’t think so. My mother uses a decorator for things like that.”
    â€œThen what about this guy?”
    Lentz hands him another mug shot, this one taken by the State of North Carolina. The man in the photo appears to be a relative of the first. He has the same face, but older and thicker, with less hair and more neck.
    â€œI’ve never seen him either. Why are you asking?”
    â€œThey work together sometimes. They’re brothers, actually, but this kind of robbery—it’s more along the lines of the older brother’s MO.”
    â€œWhat were they in prison for?”
    Lentz doesn’t respond.
    â€œCome on. I’ve been here for hours and no one will tell me anything. I can’t even get in to see my mother.”
    The population of the hospital’s waiting room has tripled since Kyung returned from his parents’ house. The police are everywhere. Some are in uniform, but most are off duty, wearing their shields around their necks like oversized pendants. The crime rate in Marlboro is low, almost nonexistent. Occasionally, a car goes missing or some college students throw a party that gets out of hand, but what happened to his parents is different, a fact that everyone in the room seems to understand. Kyung wouldn’t mind being surrounded by the police if they were actually being helpful, but none of them appear to be doing anything, not even Connie, who keeps moving around from person to person, talking to everyone but clearly avoiding him.
    Lentz leans in and motions toward the picture of the first man. He lowers his voice to a whisper. “This one’s been in and out for drug possession, breaking and entering, and robbery. His older