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making bodily contact, screaming out profanity inches from his face, and Park is trying to fend him off while calling for the woman, the mother, to intervene.  Calling on anyone.  Park can see a crowd gathering, but no one moves to help.  He glances over his shoulder to look for Rina but she’s gone.
    Behi nd the man, the fight is intensifying; the boys lock up into a clinch, grappling, trying to wrestle each other to the ground.  As Park watches, they begin to use their nails.  Their teeth.  Going for the throat, but taking whatever falls within range.  Ripping at each other.  Their movements are frenzied enough that the blood is shedding from them in droplets, all directions, like when a wet animal shakes.  Before Park can push the man aside and run to separate them, the man stops yelling and lunges at him, full force.
     
     
    The man ’s momentum sends Park crashing backward into the front desk.  Pinning him up against the edge of the counter.  The man uses his body weight, controlling him.  Their faces are close enough to nearly touch. 
    Maintaining eye contact, leaning heavily into Park, the man inexplicably pushes out his own tongue and bites down hard.  The front teeth cut in deeply.  Recoiling, Park quickly jerks a knee into the man ’s midsection, then hooks him with a right cross to the temple.  The man goes down face-first and twitches a few times. 
    Without looking back, Park runs.  Tearing across the lobby toward the bank of elevators.  Pushing past onlookers.  Their passive expressions.  Utterly unconcerned. 
    Park decides mid-run that he can’t wait for the elevator; he bolts to the stairwell.  Climbing feverishly.  Pulling himself up, hand over hand, using the banister.
    When he opens the door to the suite, Lee is lying on her stomach, watching TV.  Twenty-four hour weather channel.  An animated graphic of a storm swirling over the Pacific.  She doesn ’t even pause to look up at him.
    He slams the door closed and engages every lock. 
    “We need to go,” he says, breathing hard.  “Lee.”  He is watching the hallway through the fish-eye lens.  “Are you hearing me?  We need to go.”
    She doesn ’t respond.  Staring blankly at the flat-screen.
    “ Lee,” he says sharply.
    When she doesn ’t acknowledge him, he goes to the bedside, picks up the remote and clicks the power button.  The television goes black.
    “ I’m talking to you,” he says, snapping his fingers in front of her a few times.  “Hey.” 
    Still silent, she simply closes her eyes, shutting him out.  Her lips are pressed together tightly.  He can tell that she ’s been drinking from the small bottles in the mini bar.
    He watches her. 
    “Lee,” he says.  He softens his tone.  “I think we need to go.”
    She opens her eyes, but she still stares forward. 
    “I agree with you,” she says. 
    He exhales.  He kneels at the bedside, putting a hand gently on her arm.  “Good.  Okay.  Good.”
    She looks at him.  “I already tried,” she says.  “I tried calling to change the flight, but there’s no cell service.”
    “ Do it online.”
    “ I tried,” she says.
    “ And?”
    “ The site isn’t taking reservation changes.  It just times out.”
    He gets to his feet and walks over to the landline phone on the night stand and picks up the handset.  There ’s no signal.  He clicks the button on the cradle halfheartedly a few times before hanging up.
     
     
    They lie in bed and recount everything they ’ve experienced over the course of the past forty-eight hours.  Debating the meaning of it all, if there is one.  They try to determine whether this series of events is just a result of temporary bad fortune—an anomaly—or whether it’s a sign of a truly bad thing coming, something catastrophic.  As is often the case, they find themselves arguing opposite sides: he says it’s going to be okay, and she says it’s not, that nothing will ever be the same again.  They