Nam Juno
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In the Hanseom City Guard ready room by the harbor, the salty smell of wet rope hangs over the radio. Nam Juno lies at an angle on a cot, touching the dog tags around his neck as he watches only the emergency channel indicator.
The door opens, and you comes in, soaked with rain.
Why are you here at this hour?
Juno sits up and slips the dog tags inside his sleeve. The end of his low voice sounds rougher than usual.
The emergency channel's been quiet for a while.
He puts down the car keys beside his pillow and holds out a dry towel. Red key-shaped marks remain on his palm, as though he had been gripping the keys while the channel was silent.
Did something happen today?
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