I crushed through the doors of General Hospital, fell to my knees and tried to catch my breath. Within the span of a few moments, two nurses came running towards me, equipped with masks, face shields, and bubble-wrap clothing. "Sir, are you okay?"

I'm fine, I tried to say. I'm here to see my brother. It's urgent. Take me to him, please. Now! But no words wanted to escape my chapped lips. I was wheezing like I was dying. 

"Do you need some water?" One nurse asked, but kept a safe distance. I nodded, and a glass of cold liquid got pressed into my hands. Gulping it down in two big sips, I burped, wiped my mouth, "I…'Imin…need t-to s-see. B…rother." 

The nurse had a second glass ready for me. "Just sit down for a second," she advised, but I shook my head, already having half-emptied that glass, too. "No time," I gasped, my voice still raspy like a sand grinder. "Need to see my brother, Park Jimin."

"Which ward is your brother in?"

"I…I don't know." Shit! What if it takes ages to find him? 

"Was he admitted today?"

"Yes," before the nurse could direct me towards A&E I shook my head. "He's b-bein' admi'stred a 'eeding tube."

The nurses looked at another. I guess that was a rather odd reason to be admitted to hospital. "He's having the operation right now. I-I n-need to s…top it." I barely managed to get the words out before I had another coughing fit. That was too much running and too much talking in a too short amount of time. 

"I'm afraid it will be impossible to stop an ongoing operation," the nurse sneered at me like I was an idiot. "But we can find out the operation room and you can see your brother afterwards."

"YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND!" I bellowed, regretting raising my voice instantly as I succumbed to another coughing fit.

"Sir, you need to calm down. I won't be able to help you otherwise."

I squinted my eyes and slowly counted to ten. "My brother is having a feeding tube inserted because he didn't eat for a few days. But even the doctor agreed it's a psychological issue. I'm his guardian, and I never approved the operation," I blurted. "My parents did, but they're not supposed to have a say in any of this."

One nurse left halfway through my little speech, the other one looked at me glassy-eyed. "As I said, we cannot stop an ongoing operation. But refusing nutrition for weeks is a severe issue. I'm sure the doctor and your parents had a thorough conversation about the operation and its consequences. If your brother is to undergo treatment for anorexia, he needs to be in a reasonably stable physical condition."

"My brother isn't anorexic," I barked. "He's… he's…" I bit my lips. Old Jimin had struggled with his appearance. But this Jimin—I was sure hadn't tried to lose weight. "He wasn't trying to lose weight. It's that covid thing. He…he is living in a care home now. And I wasn't allowed to visit. No one was. He…the carers said he deteriorated."

The nurse nodded. "I would recommend you have a thorough conversation with your brother's doctor. I'm sure he and your parents have acted with your brother's best interest at heart."

Before I could say anything else, the second nurse had returned. "Park Jimin. Third floor, hall two. Operation is scheduled until three pm, then he will be wheeled into the recovery room. You are welcome to wait there."

I checked the time. It was one-thirty—one and a half hours to wait. I nodded, patted my breast pocket. "Is there any place I can buy a pack of cigarettes?"

"At the hospital?"

I guess that had been a stupid question. 

"There is a little kiosk, if you leave through exit three, turn right, and walk down the road for five minutes." 

I thanked the nurse and looked for exit three. It was official. Karma didn't want me to stop. Otherwise, it wouldn't throw that much fucking bullshit my way. 

On my way, I retrieved my phone, dialled my parents' landline. No one picked up. I tried dialling another number. 

"Hello, this is Park Ayeong."

"Hi mum, what—"

"I'm afraid I can't take your call right now, but if you leave a message with your name and number I will call you back as soon as I can."

Voicemail. Shit. 

I listened through the bla-bla. I hated leaving voicemails, but I waited for the stupid beep anyway. "Fuck you!" 

I shoved the phone back into my pocket, walked into the small kiosk and when I tried to pay for my pack of Raisins Black Cat, I realised I had no money on me. The seller looked at me reproachfully as they cancelled the transaction and put the cancer sticks back on the shelf behind the till. 

I sighed, reached for my phone, and skimmed through my list of contacts. I stopped on Joon's name, contemplating. Could he even help me?

I shrugged. It was worth a try. Instead, of calling his mobile, I tipped the icon with his work number. This was a formal call, after all. 

"Precinct five oh three, how can I help?" Answered a bored voice. 

"I need to speak to officer Kim Namjoon."

"And what's the purpose of the call?"

"Tell him it's Yoongi, and it's urgent."

I could tell the operator wasn't pleased with my answer, but they put me through nevertheless.

"Yoongi hyung? What's up?"

"I need to file a missing person report."

"Huh? What happened? Jimin—did he?"

"No, Jimin is fine." Jimin wasn't fine. Jimin was anything but fine. "Well, it's not about Jimin, not directly." I corrected. "It's my parents."

"Your parents have gone missing?" 

"I…it seems like. I haven't been able to get hold of them for days now. And I need to speak to them urgently. And then I need to rip them a brand new arseh…"

"MAY I REMIND YOU that you're calling on a recorded police line," Joon interrupted half coughing, half yelling. "Now tell me what happened."

"I need a cigarette for that but I don't have one."

Joon made a sound that was a mix between a huff and a sigh. "Where are you?"

"At General Hospital."

A pause.

"Erm…"

"Gimme five minutes." Joon hung up and my shoulders slumped. 

"What a fucking day." Still cigarette-less, I trotted up to floor three. I wasn't permitted in the hall. But there was a small waiting area in front. I plonked down into a dingy, yellow plastic chair, then texted Joon my exact whereabouts. I hoped my friend would arrive soon. 

"Min Yoongi?" 

I turned toward the voice. For a moment I thought Dr Choi was standing in front of me. Although this…surgeon, I guess…looked equally oily and self-absorbed, he was taller and his nose had the wrong shape. 

"That's me." I got up. 

The surgeon didn't come any closer, so I took a few careful steps his way and had an odd sense of déjà vu when I found the words Dr Choi, Head Surgeon stitched onto his pristine white coat. 

I crossed my arms and raised my eyebrows. 

"The operation has been successful and Mr Park is now in the recovery room. You may go and see him."

"What were you thinking? You can't just go around and place random tubes into people!"

"The feeding tube is for Mr Park's own good. This was an essential operation. If you spoke to his carers and doctors you would know…"

"I WOULD KNOW THAT HIS PROBLEM IS PSYCHOLOGICAL," I yelled. "He needs therapy, not a tube. He needs his family! He…he felt isolated at MOTS house. The situation…restrictions were hard on him."

The doctor didn't show any reaction to my outburst. "The operation went well, and Mr Park is expected to wake up in the next couple of hours. I don't expect any complications." The doctor nodded in greeting, then turned to walk away. 

"You fucking little piece of shit," I grumbled under my breath, but not loud enough for him to hear. Instead, I legged to the recovery room, looking for my brother. "Jimin? Where is Park Jimin?" I barked at the first member of staff I found. "I'll get the nurse," that person cowered. "I'm sorry, I'm only the cleaner."

A few moments later I approached the little cot in the middle of a row of five. If the nurse hadn't assured me this was Jimin's bed, I would have thought a child was lying in it. The lump in the middle looked so…tiny.

Jimin couldn't have lost that much weight in a span of a few weeks, could he?

I touched a blue-veined hand and squeezed it lightly. It felt like a tiny baby bird in my own callused paw. 

Jimin's cheeks were hallowed and there were dark bags underneath his eyes. His new haircut didn't help. Someone had decided to shave his head, and where I was used to seeing bleached dandelion fluff, was now a black, thinned and brittle-looking buzz cut. I carefully touched the strands, wondering whether they felt as dry as they looked, but retracted my hand immediately, gasping. Although I had only touched him lightly, my hand was full of Jimin's locks, and there was now a light patch on his head. 

This….couldn't be normal. "Nurse?" I called. "Nurse?"

But apparently, I hadn't been heard. I looked from Jimin to the door and back. I didn't want to leave my brother. Jimin looked so fragile. As if he would be blown away any moment. 

I brushed my fingers along his temple, his cheekbone, down to his chin. Jimin didn't show any reaction. I guess the anaesthesia had knocked him out good. 

"I'm so sorry," I muttered. "I…genuinely thought I was doing the right thing. I…I thought you would be happy at MOTS house, constantly being surrounded by people who have time for you—and actually know what they're doing." I gulped. "And maybe I'm an idiot for not having anticipated any of this, but I would have never thought that I would ever be denied visitation rights because of this stupid pandemic thing."

My eyes started to leak and I wiped away tears. Was I sad? Upset? Angry? I didn't even know. I felt…numb. 

I looked down at Jimin's feather-like form. I did that. This was my fault. Because I had not been able to properly look after him. If I wasn't such a loser, none of this would have happened. 

There was another one of those yellow plastic chairs crammed against the opposite wall, and I moved it to Jimin's bed, falling into it. Jimin was snoring again, louder than a chainsaw. How could such a tiny person produce so much noise? 

Footsteps were approaching, the strides too long and heavy for a rubber-shoe-clad nurse. Boots. Police officer boots. A small commotion, some cracking sound, and a few hastily muttered apologies. Some clanking. If I had to take a guess, Joon had run into a cart, sent some medication flying, dropped his handcuffs as he tried to help to pick the pills up, stepped on a few by accident, before the nurses assured him that they really didn't need his help here, and that he'd better be on his way to wherever he needed to be.

A few seconds later, the door to the recovery room swung open, and Joon rushed in, two coffees in hand, fortunately in aluminium cans rather than paper takeaway cups. Wordlessly, he opened one, then pressed it into my hands. "What happened?" He asked. 

I sighed, but found myself unable to repeat what had happened. Instead, I reached for Jimin's blanket and carefully pulled it downwards. I bit my lips while doing so. Although I knew what I would find underneath, I had yet to see Jimin's feeding tube and wondered what such a monstrosity would actually look like from up close. 

The wound was covered only by a ten by ten cm piece of gauze with a little hole in the middle, though which peeked a small silicone hose, similar in diameter to a drinking straw. There was a tiny plastic construct where the hose met the gauze, as if to hold it in place. 

The tube itself was only about twenty centimetres long, and there was a little plastic clasp at the end, to which the food would be connected. It looked better than expected, but also worse. The idea that Jimin's food would now be pumped directly into his stomach because he refused to eat anything had been horrendous, but had also remained a somewhat abstract concept. Seeing the actual equipment poking from his conclave stomach was the stuff out of nightmares. But even I could no longer deny that there was merit to the operation. Jimin's hips and rips were protruding like the bodies of the starved children they showed on TV every Christmas. 

Joon next to me was equally silent, but he looked more composed than I did. "Poor little fellow," he muttered to my brother. 

"It's all my fault. If I hadn't…"

"If anyone is to blame, it's that stupid pandemic. I've seen you suffer when they wouldn't allow you to see your brother. I can only assume what it must have been like for him. Don't blame yourself or the decision you made. No one would have anticipated any of this. 

"I…I…" I turned around, wiping more tears from my eyes and my nose, hoping against hope Joon hadn't noticed any of this. 

A hand was clasped on my shoulder, "come on, mate. Let Jimin rest."

I shook my head, not ready to leave Jimin's side. 

"I'm not telling you to go home. I'm telling you to step outside for five minutes." Joon patted his five-thousand police-uniform-pockets before he retrieved something shiny and tiny from one. A pack of cigarettes. He didn't need to say anything else.

I squeezed Jimin's tiny hand one more time, "I'll be right back, okay," I kissed his forehead—something I don't recall ever having done before—then followed Joon outside. 

There was a little bench just opposite the car park where a police cruiser stood, headlights still flashing. At least Joon had had the decency to switch the siren off. 

I lit up, took a drag, and sank into the bench. I had thought the cigarette and the fresh air would calm my nerves, but the opposite was the case. Tears were rolling down my cheeks as if they were racing another, striving for pole position. 

I couldn't even finish my cancer stick, I was sobbing so hard, I dropped the thing to the ground without even noticing. 

Joon sat next to me silently, typing something into his mobile. 

"You ready to talk about your parents?" He asked after a while, once my tears had dried down a little. 

"I might need another one for that story," I mumbled, carefully eying his pack. Joon put it in my lap. "Help yourself."

I lit up another cigarette took another deep drag, then told Joon how I first tried to get hold of mum and dad to ask for help footing MOTS house's bills. How I found out that they actually agreed to have this operation, how they had inserted themselves as Jimin's guardians, which wasn't their right at all. I had been my brothers emergency contact here in Korea for most of his adult life. 

"Have you actually tried to visit their house?" Joon asked. 

I shook my head. "Only called them." 

"Okay, you wouldn't be able to report them missing without having tried to reach out in person." He nodded to the cruiser, "Jimin is going to be out for another couple of hours at least, let's get this checked out."

"Now?"

"Yes, now."

I sighed, unable to decide what would be worse: seeing my parent's or finding that they really had disappeared.

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