"Thanks so much. I've got to get to the post office for stamps and bring the church bingo money to the bank. Plus there's homework, then the kids have swimming lessons and basketball practice. Every little bit helps."

"No problemo," Remo said. "We're glad to help."

The woman wanted to ask who the "we" was. But the friendly man with the thick wrists and the nice smile had already climbed into his car and driven away.

Chapter 3

Gusts of cold air rattled the frosty windowpanes. For many years instinct had awakened him at the same early-morning hour. The old man was generally the first to arise in the village. But for the first hour after dawn on this particular day, the sleeping man didn't hear the sound. He was tired and old and, after all, the howling, buffeting wind was nothing new for someone who had lived every day of his long life on the West Korean Bay.

Only when the sun began to brush the sill and cast evil yellow beams across his pillow did he finally, reluctantly draw open his tired, rheumy eyes. Another day in Sinanju.

It was a beautiful morning. A surprising thing given the uneasiness of the previous night. Although he was old and had earned the right to sleep late, Pullyang generally didn't stay in bed so long. But this day was different.

The elderly man had been awakened during the night by an awful sound-a wail of pain as loud as thunder and as clear as the night sky. The terrible sound had snapped him from a deep sleep.

When he heard the noise, Pullyang didn't go outside.

He slept in a warm bed, off the floor. Feeling his heart tremble, Pullyang had climbed out of bed. His weary bones creaked like the bare wooden floor. He crept to the window and peeked out at the dark.

It was late. The house lights were off in the village. Coal-fueled braziers burned on posts, their dying light illuminating the cold main square.