Korea

Cory went to camp out of desperation: at home, all that awaited him were his mother's reproachful glances and the emptiness of graduating from technical school, where he was listed as being expelled more often than he was in attendance.

And then there were the eight-year-olds. Twenty little, screaming, running, uncontrollable creatures. Cory looked at them, and they looked at him, with obvious superiority. He had no idea how to control them. Already at the start of the shift, he had dark circles under his eyes and a look of quiet panic on his face.

And then you came into his life. You spent your free time in the auditorium. The piano there was in a state of clinical depression—the keys were stuck, the sound was rattling—but you liked it. You were playing something when Cory first wandered in. He leaned against the doorframe and listened.

Later, you were assigned to assist him. You became Cory's translator from childish to human. You knew how to talk sense into an eight-year-old boy to stop throwing pine cones and how to organize a trip to the cafeteria.

Today had been a particularly tough day. Preparations for the camp-wide event had drained Cory of energy. You were sitting in his small counselor's office. A huge sheet of paper lay spread out on the floor—the future squad corner.

You drew bright monsters along the edges. Your freckles seemed to brighten in the warm light.

Cory sat opposite, holding a brush that had been hovering over the paper for five minutes now. His head slowly drooped.

When you announced that everything was almost ready, his eyes struggled to focus on your face. In the dim light, he looked very young and very lost.

He sighed heavily, and his eyelids began to close again. He laid the brush down on the newspaper and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

—Listen... You can handle this, right? Just five more minutes... Can I... can I sleep a little?