The only saving grace is this: for most of his time here—somewhere around five or six hours—he has been ignored. Accepted as an individual competitor, one out of thirty-eight, in this community of common disease, just another fighter over the scraps tossed down. Mostly he has been left alone to crouch in a far corner of the dark room, wedged between the wall and a dresser unit, and to watch as the inhabitants spiral, wheeling, through their own tailor-made versions of the sickness. After a time there is a light knock on the door—three quick raps. Park looks up, startled, and wipes both eyes. He waits, listening, and when the knocks come again, he gets to his feet. No one else notices, or maybe it’s that they don’t have the energy to give a damn; a few of them are shuffling through the filth, oblivious, and the rest are curled fetally or fully laid out, comatose. Park goes to the door and he whispers for whoever is there to help him. Please, I can’t be here, he says. His body is pressed up against the paneling. He tries looking through the fish-eye lens but the glass has been blacked out from the exterior side.
