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“I'm just like you,” Minjeong's voice crests into a murmur when Jimin folds her digits. I'm just like you. They're all unearthed from under the layers of her salivating urges. “There’s nothing I like about this place too.”
As if to tell the unspoken: we're made of one vessel alone, me and you. We're never written to make do of orangeade after tasting the sun.
Christmas in Hutchinson and Jimin's arrival from New York, Minjeong is forced to face the autopsies of what happened the summer of ‘81 in little league.