I take a walk down the hill near the Shilla Hotel before dinner service. Suddenly a black flock of pigeons rises up in front of me. Dust and pollen fly into my face, and as I pull my hands out of my pockets to shield my eyes, I see through my fingers a pigeon flying swiftly toward my foot. My foot pauses in midair as the pigeon rushes forward and swoops onto it, swallowing it whole. With no time to regain my balance, I take a tumble in the middle of the street. Rolling on the downward slope, I realize it wasn’t a pigeon but a black plastic bag. But that’s after I’ve already fallen. For a while I lie there on my stomach without moving. I must have broken something, I think. My cheek, which scraped along the sidewalk, starts to burn. Two pedestrians try to help me up. I’m okay, I say, pushing their hands away, thinking, I hope I hurt my ankle, not my wrists. I sit up slowly and flex my wrists. If I hurt my hands, I won’t be able to cook anymore, or even go into the kitchen. I won’t be able to do anything, either at home or at Nove.
