The Laundry Fee Is Charged Separately

I stopped three of the washing machines.

The three minutes on the displays froze where they were. The red thread climbing out of the drain stopped moving too. The end that had already reached the floor, though, kept growing longer.

"I shut the machines off. Why is it still—"

Do-yoon moved to shift the basket. I caught his hand.

"Don't unplug them. There's still water inside."

Cut the power, and every machine released its door lock a different way. The moment we hauled the loads out, there was no telling where this contaminant would go. Stopping a wash did not make the laundry safe.

Seo Yul looked at the floor. Her face went harder than it had when she looked up at the windows of the building.

"I'll isolate the entire drain line."

She opened her hand. A silver line wrapped the rim of the drain. The instant the red thread touched it, water spat, and one of the fluorescent tubes flickered.

"How long can you hold?"

"I can't promise. It gets stronger when it reacts to my power."

Try to burn it, and it spread. Try to tear it out, and it transferred. Pin it down, and it grew stronger. The water coming out of the machines was the same. This had never been a problem stuck only to the clothes.

I checked the drain filter under machine one. Fine threads were caught through it, dense as a weave. As the blood washed away, strands that hadn't shown at first had come clear.

Once a customer's clothes were clean, the job was usually finished. Today the work after that remained.

Grandmother had always taken dye loads, no exceptions. If dye bled out of white sneakers, she said, sending that water straight into the sewer wasn't laundry. It was making yourself a nuisance to everyone downstream.

Behind the shop sat the old wastewater drums. Two blue hundred-liter barrels. After the customers thinned out, I had taken to stacking packs of tissue on top of them. The latches on the rubber lids were still sound.

"Do-yoon. Empty those drums and bring them over."

"You're going to trap it in there?"

"First I'll stop it from getting outside. After that, we hand it to the Association."

He knocked the stacked tissues off as he moved the drums. Any other day he would have picked them up. Now he kicked them aside just far enough to clear a path.

I pulled a spare drain hose from under the sink. Take the machine hoses off the shared line in the wall and run them into the collection drums, and the water would not go out to the street. The problem was what had already gone into the pipes.

Above the drain, the red thread coiled into a circle. It traveled along Seo Yul's silver line, then turned toward the washers. A black hole opened in the center of the bundle.

"We have to hurry."

The black veins that had vanished from the back of her hand were surfacing again.

I reached to pull the threads from the filter, then stopped. Pull, and it transferred. I had learned that from the cloak's lining. Inside the machine, a reverse spin had undone the knot. I couldn't spin a pipe. Then I could spin the side that held the thread.

I took a long, flat stain brush from the worktable, wound an old towel several layers thick around the handle, and soaked it in cold detergent water. Seo Yul stepped in front of me.

"You can't touch it with your hands."

"I won't touch it bare-handed."

"That isn't what I—"

"The moment I yank this, all three of us get stained. Pressing it down won't work either. It has to be loosened."

My voice shook. Trying to sound sure only made it shake worse. I told her, separately, which part I understood and where my certainty ran out.

"I managed to get it out of the clothes. Once it was in the water, the tension let go. I'm going to see if it's the same out here. If it isn't, I'll drop it at once."

Seo Yul looked at the brush. Then she checked my gloves.

"I'll shield you to the wrist. Only a thin layer."

"Thank you. Could you hold the detergent jug?"

An S-class guildmaster crouched and lifted a plastic jug worth three thousand won.

I poured the water slowly along the rim of the drain trap. The tip of the red thread clung to the towel. Inside the glove, my right index finger itched.

I wanted to let go of the handle. It frightened me more because this was not the first warning I had heard.

Instead of pulling, I pushed the handle the slightest bit. I offered the towel in the direction the thread had come from, wrapped the wet end, and turned it the other way. The brush went half a turn.

Something snapped inside the pipe. Black water rose over the drain.

Do-yoon brought a rubber squeegee.

"Where do I send it?"

"The drum with the red mark. Don't use the white one yet."

He gathered the water with the squeegee while I turned the handle again. The end of the thread caught between the loops of the towel, and the knot inside the pipe eased, little by little. One full turn. A rest. Then half a turn back the other way.

Doing the machine's work by hand, my wrist hurt sooner than I had expected. The soaked towel was heavy, and something on the inside kept hanging on.

"This is the last of it."

Seo Yul said it from over my shoulder.

I poured out what remained of the detergent water. The bundle of thread slid free of the pipe mouth. The instant it began winding itself around the towel, I dropped brush and all into the collection drum.

Do-yoon slammed the lid down. The drum lurched once. He drove all three latches home until the tendons stood out in his arm.

Seo Yul's silver line wrapped the outside of the drum. This time it was narrow and thin — not a line meant to pin the drum down, but one that stitched shut every gap where something might leak.

I leaned against the wall and caught my breath. It wasn't over. Three machines were still waiting on their final drain.

I connected the drain hoses to one of the empty drums. A status window rose to tell me the waters must not mix.

I opened three thick wastewater bags inside the drum and set one hose into each. Seo Yul held the mouths for me. I traced every connection by hand. I capped the shared drain line, and I asked Do-yoon to mark each drum with its machine number.

"Starting them again."

One, two, and four. The machine noise that had stalled came back. The three minutes left ran longer than the twenty-seven that had come before.

The water came out black. Threads moved inside the three drums, but they had no way out. Nothing sounded beneath the floor drain either.

About two minutes in, the infirmary called. The last patient's fingers were moving.

I took empty hangers from the drying rack. A life coming back and a garment coming back were separate procedures. I pulled out the vests I had just washed and hung them in the order of their name tags.

Seo Yul leaned against the rack and closed her eyes. Do-yoon, answering the latest call, stopped mid-sentence. Through the speaker, several people were talking over one another — arguing about who had eaten someone's packed lunch. Do-yoon set the phone down and covered his face.

The clock on the shop wall read 4:12.

When the Association's Purification Squad arrived, I was sitting on the floor, peeling off my gloves. My index finger was red. Nothing was torn.

The officer in charge did not look inside the drums. He set an analyzer against the surface and had Do-yoon confirm the latches with his own eyes.

"We're recovering all of the discharge. Did any more of it get into the sewer line?"

I pointed to the cap on the shared pipe and the wet brush. He took even the water on the floor as a sample. The threads were sealed contaminated waste now. Better that the dangerous thing sit in a drum with a number on it than drift around under some frightening name.

The officer asked,

"Are you a Purifier registered with the Association?"

"I'm the owner of a laundromat."

He looked at my apron. A ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠stain had spread on the sleeve, and the words Manbok Laundromat across the chest were half soaked.

"I think I awakened for the first time today. How do I register?"

He wrote a department and a number on the back of a business card. Then he told me, once more, not to take hazardous contaminants alone. I nodded.

After the Purification Squad left, the shop suddenly felt large. Only three people remained, and seven garments.

I looked at my gloves first. There was no red dot on the index finger. No name, and no rank — but that one confirmation was good.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

Seo Yul stood in front of the worktable.

"How much do I owe you now?"

I brought over the calculator. Seven garments. A base rate of six thousand won each. Special contamination, eighteen thousand each. From a total of one hundred sixty-eight thousand, I subtracted the six thousand already paid.

"One hundred sixty-two thousand won."

Seo Yul said nothing for a while. The silence was different from the first, so I lifted the estimate.

"The clothes aren't damaged. The photos and personal effects are here. If Do-yoon handles the delivery, I won't charge for that."

She took the estimate from my hand and set it down.

"And the machine repairs? There are things we used up today, because of us."

"That'll need its own estimate."

"Then bill it separately. And charge the laundry fee separately, too."

Seo Yul set her wallet on the card terminal. I switched on the old terminal my grandmother had used. The battery was dead, and while I plugged it in, no one rushed me. The approval chime sounded. It was the first money that had come in today.

Do-yoon tucked the envelope of photos against his chest and gathered the vests. Seo Yul looked at the demolition company's estimate, left by the entrance.

"Are you closing today?"

"I was planning to."

On my phone was a confirmation from the demolition technician.

Seo Yul set her business card on top of the estimate.

"Could you take on the laundry for our guild's gear? We'll inspect anything hazardous first and call you. I won't shove it at you just because it's urgent."

I looked at the card. On the news, S-Class always sat in front of her name. Here there was only a name and a phone number.

"Do ordinary loads come in, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠too?"

"Training clothes, more than anything. And they smell the worst."

I laughed.

"That, I'm confident about."

I sent the technician a message.

A mere one hundred sixty-two thousand won would not cover the rent. But if I closed the door, there would be no reason to call the number on that card. For now, I decided to stay open through tomorrow, and no further.

Do-yoon went out with the last box. Seo Yul folded the still-damp cloak and held it to her chest. The yellow ribbon was tied off on its own.

"Why did you set this aside?"

"I was afraid the writing would bleed."

She looked at the ribbon for a long moment, then tied it again to the loop inside the cloak.

"Thank you, sir."

The ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠door closed. Across the way, the building's windows were bright again.

I mopped the floor slowly. I slipped the six name tags into the ledger and turned over the paper that had been inside the cloak at the start. Faded writing ran across the back.

I turned the paper over, then looked again. Jeong-yeom was a name I had never heard. And yet the last stroke of yeom, the one that dragged long downward, was strangely familiar.

My grandmother's name had been Park Man-bok. Mine was Kang Ha-jun.

I lifted my phone to photograph the writing, and the paper blurred as if it had gone wet. On the screen, only a blank sheet.

The bell at the door rang. I slid the paper between the pages of the ledger and looked up.

A woman stood there. Black hair tied loosely, a white cloth gathered in her arms. Unlike the guildmaster, she had both shoes on properly, and her face was unhurt. The hand on the door, though, wore three layers of gloves.

"Are you still open?"

I looked at the clock. A little past six in the morning.

"Yes. We're twenty-four hours."

She took one step inside, as if relieved. When I reached out to take the cloth, she flinched back.

"You can't touch it."

A red dot appeared before my eyes. There was no dot on the woman's white mourning clothes. It was on the hand inside the glove.

"Not the clothes. Me."