The Umbrella

Footsteps echoed through a backstage corridor of the Seoul Memorial Park stadium, the sounds bouncing off the polished floor and trans-steel window, swelling and folding back on themselves to match the hall's contours.

The evening sun cast long shadows of rich amber across the park, and the heady, perfumed smell of late summer filled the air. But strewed across the well-kept grass were pieces of brown packaging, fluttering gently in the breeze. An empty envelope skittered into a flowerbed, and a scrap of white paper drifted along until it hit an upturned shoe. It strained for a moment against the polished black leather, then gave up and sank to the ground.

Russ woke with a start. A screaming whistle cut the night air, and his senses came to. The oppressive weight of the tarpaulin covering him. The smell of sweat. The ache of his muscles, tired from running. He sat up, bundling the tarp aside, and breathed the cool air. A freight train stretched lazily along the tracks nearby, steam blooming from its underbelly and spreading across the ground. Russ swung his legs over the edge of the crate and slipped his feet into the clouds.