The expulsion notice was a single sheet of regulation paper. An official letter from the Ministry of Education, stamped with a petroleum-colored logo. Seokhyeon read it while still bent over taking off his shoes at the door. 'Pursuant to Article 14, Paragraph 3 of the Environmental Efficiency Education Act, enrollment of Unedited Children in general classes is prohibited beginning the second semester of the 2025 school year. The student in question, Park Hayul (age 8), falls below the Oxygen Consumption Rating and is subject to transfer to a Special Class.' Seokhyeon read the letter twice. The fluorescent light in the entryway flickered. The second time, the letters were sharper. Beneath the words 'Special Class,' in smaller print, it read: 'Special Classes are operated in separate facilities with adjustable ventilation.' Separate facilities. Seokhyeon recalled a photograph of a Special Class he had seen on the news 3 years earlier. A windowless classroom. 4 children. Desks divided by partitions. Two air purifiers mounted on the wall. Seokhyeon folded the letter and slipped it into his pocket. His finger caught on the edge of the paper. Blood beaded up. Without sucking at it, Seokhyeon shut the front door.
Hayul was sitting at the kitchen table doing her homework. The hand gripping the pencil was small. She was writing letters on the paper. Every time a stroke came out crooked, she rubbed it away with the eraser and wrote it again. Seokhyeon went into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water. As he drank, he watched Hayul's back. The child's shoulders were hunched up with the concentration of her homework. The outline of her spine showed through the thin fabric of her clothes. Edited children had higher muscle efficiency, they said, so their density was different even at the same weight. Hayul was lighter than other kids her age. Whether that was a matter of efficiency or simply her constitution, Seokhyeon did not try to tell apart. There was no need to. Not until now.
"Dad, I have my fitness test tomorrow."
Hayul said it without lifting her head.
"Yeah? Must've been rough."
"Yunseo ran 1,200 meters. I stopped at 800."
Seokhyeon set the glass down in the sink. A single drop fell from the faucet.
"800 whole meters? That's really impressive, that is."
Hayul looked up. Her round eyes turned toward her father.
"Really?"
Seokhyeon nodded, lightly cupping her shoulder in his hand.
"Of course. You're my daughter."
Only then, as if reassured, did Hayul turn back to her homework. The scratch of her pencil rustled across the table.
Seokhyeon stood at the sink washing the dishes. Through the suds he could see Hayul from behind. He watched how the hand gripping her pencil lacked strength, so the writing came out faint. Edited children had higher efficiency even in their finger muscles, they said, producing twice the pen pressure with the same force. He had once seen Hayul's homework notebook at a parent-teacher conference. The teacher had spoken without meeting his eyes. The writing was too light, she said, making it hard to grade. Laid side by side with the other children's notebooks, Hayul's writing alone was strangely pale. Seokhyeon switched her to a 4B pencil. Darker lead. Even so, it was fainter than the 2B of the edited kids. When he finished the dishes, Seokhyeon went to the living room and sat on the sofa. He took the letter from his pocket and read it again. 'Below the Oxygen Consumption Rating.' Rating. It meant that a single breath of Hayul's used the same amount of oxygen as two breaths of an edited child. When the children ran during gym class at school, if Hayul was gasping for breath, the edited child beside her kept an even rhythm. When they shared the air of the same classroom, one Hayul consumed the oxygen of two edited children. The Environmental Efficiency Education Act called this an 'unequal burden on the educational environment.'
Seokhyeon folded the letter again and put it in his pocket. He had spent 15 years unloading containers at the harbor. Edited coworkers had begun trickling in about 7 years ago. They worked longer in the same span of hours. They took fewer breaks. The interval between their oxygen tank changes was twice as long as Seokhyeon's. 3 years ago, when the Port Authority implemented its 'High-Efficiency Worker Priority Placement' policy, Seokhyeon's work zone was pushed from Zone 3 to Zone 6. Zone 6 had poor lighting, which made the container numbers hard to read. Seokhyeon did not protest. While he worked in Zone 6, his oxygen tank change time dropped from 2 hours to 1 hour and 40 minutes. The high-efficiency coworkers changed theirs once every 4 hours. Every time Seokhyeon went to swap his tank, his coworkers' eyes followed him. No one said anything. The looks spoke in place of words. Seokhyeon practiced slowing his breathing to stretch out the time between tank changes. It had no effect. The amount of oxygen his lungs demanded could not be changed by will. He told himself that being able to work at all was enough.
After putting Hayul to bed, Seokhyeon called his wife. She had left 3 years ago. She had wanted to get the editing done. At least for Hayul. Seokhyeon refused. His wife left. He heard she had gotten edited and was living with another man. There was a community of edited people, they said. People with the same breathing rhythm, together. When she signed the divorce papers, his wife had said:
"What's Hayul going to become when she grows up? Staying an original."
Seokhyeon did not answer. Her words had stayed in his head for 3 years. Staying an original. Seokhyeon hated the word original. A word for calling a human being who hadn't been edited. Original. A name like a rough draft that needed fixing. Seokhyeon did not think his own body was a draft. Nor Hayul's. Even now he could not answer. He placed the call. It did not connect. The number was disconnected.
The next morning, Seokhyeon did not send Hayul to school. Hayul stood at the door in her school uniform.
"Dad, I'm going to be late."
"You don't have to go today."
Hayul's eyes went wide.
"Why?"
Seokhyeon couldn't find an answer. Hayul was watching his face. He didn't look away from her eyes.
"The school called. They said it's okay for you to rest a little."
Hayul fiddled with the buttons of her uniform.
"Did I do something wrong?"
"No."
His voice came out too fast.
"You didn't do anything wrong."
Hayul nodded. Seokhyeon watched her turn away at the door. Her back looked small. She went to the living room without taking off her uniform. She hunted for the remote, dug it out from between the couch cushions, and put on a cartoon. On the screen a superhero, edited, was flying. A character who could move through space without oxygen. Hayul hugged her knees as she watched. From the kitchen, Seokhyeon watched her. He watched her try to hold her breath like the character on the screen. Her cheeks puffed out, then she exhaled as if bursting. Seokhyeon turned his head toward the sink. He ran the tap. The sound of water filled the kitchen. He stood at the door and looked at his child's back. The uniform was slipping off her shoulders. It wasn't that the clothes were big. It was that she was small.
At lunch Seokhyeon made Hayul a bowl of ramyeon. She was winding the noodles around her chopsticks when they slipped from her hand. The noodles dropped back into the broth and it splashed onto the back of Seokhyeon's hand. It was hot. Wiping his hand, he looked at Hayul. She looked up at him with an apologetic face.
"It's fine. Eat."
Hayul picked up the chopsticks again. This time she cupped them in both hands and wound the noodles slowly. Seokhyeon sat across the table until she had finished the whole bowl. Hayul drank the broth and wiped her mouth. He cleared the bowl and laid a hand on her forehead. No fever. Seokhyeon left for his shift at the port. Walking between the containers in Zone 6, he asked a coworker. During the break, he asked him. The editing procedure. The legal one ran 140 million won per child. Four years of Seokhyeon's salary. His coworker said,
"There's another place. Not legal."
Seokhyeon looked at him. Scanning a container number, the coworker said,
"Over in Incheon. Eight million won for the procedure. My brother-in-law had it done there."
"…And does it work?"
The coworker lowered his scanner and glanced at Seokhyeon.
"Worked for my brother-in-law. Fit as anything. Cellular energy efficiency up 1.7 times. Can you believe it?"
He snorted a laugh and walked on to the next container.
"Course, it doesn't take for some people. Mitochondria overheat, they say. The kids over there call it 'ignition.'"
"Ignition?"
The scanner nearly slipped from Seokhyeon's hand. The cold condensation on the container's surface touched the back of it.
"Cells burning from the inside out. Temperature spikes past 42 degrees and… well, that's the end of it."
The coworker turned back to him.
"What, is this about Hayul?"
Seokhyeon didn't answer. He picked up his scanner and walked to the next container. At 3 in the afternoon he went to change his oxygen tank. At the swap station he punched his name into the logging device. His oxygen consumption record came up on the screen. Cumulative consumption for the day: 4,800 liters. Beside it he could see his edited coworker's record. 2,100 liters. Seokhyeon shut off the screen, shouldered a fresh tank, and headed back to Zone 6. The weight of the tank rode on his back. 14 kilograms. His edited coworker's tank was a 6-kilogram one. Less than half the weight. Seokhyeon walked, feeling the weight on his back. The cold of the tank seemed to climb his spine all the way to his head. This weight was Hayul's weight.
After his shift Seokhyeon went to Incheon. The address his coworker had given him. He got off at Dongincheon Station and walked the back streets. Narrow alleys. Pipes ran exposed between the old buildings. On the ground floor sat a shuttered laundry. Dust clouded its windows. The third floor of a building with no sign. He climbed the stairs. A doorbell was mounted on the steel door. He pressed it. After a moment the door opened. The smell of disinfectant came from inside.
Inside was one man. He wore a mask. Surgical loupes were pushed up above his eyes. He looked Seokhyeon up and down, then stepped back and tipped his chin. The space was the size of a one-room flat. A medical bed stood against one wall, and beside it a monitor and syringes were laid out in a row. A genome analyzer sat on the workbench. On the monitor a helical structure turned slowly. On the opposite side stood a refrigerator. A temperature log was taped to its door. Minus 40 degrees.
Plastic sheeting was spread across the floor. There was a small stain on the sheeting. Seokhyeon pulled his eyes off the stain and looked at the man.
"Who referred you?"
the man asked. His voice was low. The words came out smeared behind the mask.
"A guy from the port. Said his brother-in-law had it done here."
The man nodded.
"Is the patient you?"
"My daughter. 8 years old."
The man's eyes narrowed behind the loupes.
"Kids are tricky. Lower mitochondrial density than adults, so the vector doesn't spread evenly."
He peeled off his latex gloves and tossed them in the trash.
"The brain especially. A kid's brain is still growing—high turnover, right? If the editing misfires in there… that's the end."
He dropped into the chair beside the refrigerator.
"So the success rate's different too. Adults, 87. Children, 74."
Seokhyeon swallowed dry. It was as if he could hear sand going down his throat.
"…74 percent."
"26 percent failure. Fail, and it ignites. Your body temperature climbs. Past 42 degrees, protein denaturation begins. Starting with the brain." The man pulled down his mask. Stubble had grown around his mouth. "The cost is 8 million won. Cash. The procedure takes 4 hours. Results come within 48."
Seokhyeon looked at the bed. The sheets were clean as new. A bite guard lay beside the pillow. When the ignition started, he'd been told, the convulsions came. A device to clamp the teeth shut and keep them from biting through the tongue. Seokhyeon looked at that bite guard. It wasn't sized for Hayul's small jaw. It was made for an adult. A thermometer and a cooling pad sat beside the bed. The cooling pad was for when the ignition began.
Seokhyeon looked at the temperature log on the refrigerator. Minus 40 degrees, recorded at the same hour every day. The temperature at which the edit vectors were stored. Inside this refrigerator was the thing that could become Hayul's future, or could destroy her. Seokhyeon barely wrung out his voice.
"...Let me think it over and come back."
The man pulled his mask back up.
"No need to leave a number. Come if you're coming."
Seokhyeon came down the stairs. 36 steps from the 3rd floor to the 1st. The smell of disinfectant lingered in his nose the whole way down. He stood in the alley and looked up at the sky. The sun was setting. Orange light reflected off the walls of the buildings. Seokhyeon stopped and took the expulsion notice from his pocket. 'Oxygen Consumption Rating below standard.' The paper had worn thin along the fold. Seokhyeon folded the letter and put it back. On the way to Dongincheon Station he stopped at a convenience store. He bought the strawberry milk Hayul liked. An ad for the edit procedure was stuck up behind the register. 'Editing is not a choice but a responsibility. Give your child the gift of efficiency.' Seokhyeon put the milk in his bag and left the store. For the 47 minutes the subway carried him home, he watched the window. The air inside the train was stifling. A single breath Seokhyeon drew in consumed as much oxygen as two breaths of the edited person beside him. Without meaning to, Seokhyeon breathed shallowly. The shallow breaths left his head spinning. The woman in the next seat glanced at him. Beneath the skin of her neck, an edit-certification chip showed faintly. Just below the collarbone, the outline of a small square. It was the mark the edited displayed with pride. There was nothing on Seokhyeon's neck. The woman looked away. Seokhyeon stood gripping the handrail. 3 minutes to the next station.
When he got home, Hayul was lying on the living room floor, drawing. She looked up at the sound of Seokhyeon taking off his shoes.
"Dad, when do I go back to school?"
There was impatience in Hayul's voice. The child loved school. She didn't have many friends, but she loved the library. In the library, no one counted how much oxygen you used. Books don't spend air.
Seokhyeon sat down beside Hayul. He looked at the picture she'd drawn. A schoolyard. Children running. Among the children in the drawing, one lagged behind the others. That child's cheeks were colored red. A face out of breath.
"Who's this?"
Seokhyeon pointed at the child falling behind.
"Me."
Hayul said. Matter-of-factly.
Seokhyeon couldn't take his eyes off the drawing. Hayul pulled out another picture to show him. It was a classroom. Children seated at desks. In one corner stood a single desk boxed in by partitions. Inside it, a child sat alone.
"And this?"
Seokhyeon asked.
"My class. That partition is the unedited seat. They put it in this year."
Hayul said, matter-of-factly.
"If you sit there, the air-conditioning blows right on you. So the other kids don't breathe my oxygen."
Seokhyeon's hand went still.
Hayul said.
"Dad."
The child set down her crayon and looked up at Seokhyeon.
"Why am I different from the other kids?"
Her voice asked it quietly.
"Yunseo said so. She said I'm… a kid who eats too much air."
Seokhyeon's hand clenched into a fist. Unclenched. Clenched again. A kid who eats too much air. Words an 8-year-old had heard from another child. Seokhyeon became aware of his own breathing. Even in this moment, the oxygen he and Hayul used was double that of the edited family living in this building. On the maintenance bill, a line item called 'oxygen surcharge' had appeared 3 months ago. 120,000 won a month. Seokhyeon hadn't stuck that bill on the refrigerator. He'd put it away in a drawer. Hayul's eyes were watching Seokhyeon's face. Seokhyeon stroked her hair. It was soft.
"You are different, Hayul."
Seokhyeon's voice was thick.
"It's true you're different. But that is absolutely not something wrong."
Hayul nodded. She picked her crayon back up. Over the schoolyard drawing, she began to draw the sky. Blue.
That night, after Hayul had fallen asleep, Seokhyeon sat at the kitchen table. He searched on his phone. Price of the legal edit procedure. For a child, 140 million won. Installments available. 36 months. 3.9 million won a month. Seokhyeon's monthly pay was 2.8 million won. An impossible number. Seokhyeon closed the screen and searched something else. Status of Special Classes for original children. 47 nationwide. 3 in Seoul. The nearest was 1 hour and 40 minutes away by bus. 4 to 6 students per class. 1 teacher. The curriculum, 70 percent of a regular class's. Seokhyeon turned off the screen. 70 percent of an education. 70 percent of a future.
Seokhyeon checked his bankbook. Balance: 11,200,000 won. If he paid the 8,000,000-won procedure fee, 3,200,000 would be left. Next month's rent, 850,000 won. No medicine for Hayul. Food. Utilities. Seokhyeon set the calculator down and looked at the ceiling. The fluorescent light up there was humming faintly. The electricity bill, too, would fall behind next month.
74 percent. Seokhyeon was used to calculating odds, handling containers down at the port. The odds of a crane failing, of a wire snapping, of a dropped-load accident. All of them numbers under 1 percent. Even those had frightened him. 26 percent was 26 times that. Seokhyeon thought of Hayul's body temperature. 36.5 degrees. Normal. Once the ignition began, it would climb past 42. A gap of 5.5 degrees. And inside that gap was the boy's brain.
Three-quarters. A little less than that. Seokhyeon turned the number over in his head. 26 percent. 1 in 4. Ignition. 42 degrees. The brain first.
Seokhyeon rose from the chair and went to Hayul's room. He opened the door. Under the blue glow of the night-light, Hayul was asleep. He had kicked the blanket off with his feet. Seokhyeon drew it back up. He looked at Hayul's face. He was breathing. In, and out. His chest rose and fell. Burning twice the oxygen of an edited child. That breath seemed to press down on Seokhyeon's own lungs.
Seokhyeon counted Hayul's breaths. 16 a minute. The average for an edited child was 9 a minute. Hayul's breathing was almost double. Each one of those breaths was, in this world, a cost. Seokhyeon laid the back of his hand against the boy's forehead. 36.4 degrees. Neither cold nor hot. That this temperature held. 36.4, not 42. Seokhyeon touched the boy's cheek lightly with his fingertips. Hayul smiled in his sleep. The corners of his mouth lifted, just a fraction. Seokhyeon took his hand away. The sound of the boy's breathing filled the room. To protect this breathing, or to change it. Seokhyeon quietly pulled the boy's door shut.
Seokhyeon closed the door and went to the entryway. He put on his shoes. He slid the bankbook and his ID into his pocket. He opened the front door. The April night air touched his face. Seokhyeon stood at the threshold and looked down the corridor. Toward the elevator. 47 minutes to Incheon by subway.
Seokhyeon stood at the front door. One foot in the corridor, one foot in the entryway. The clinic in Incheon. The clean sheet on the bed. The bite guard. The cooling pad. 74 percent. He pictured Hayul lying down on that bed. The needle sinking into the boy's arm. 4 hours of the procedure. 48 hours of waiting. And then, at a 26 percent chance, the boy's temperature beginning to rise. Seokhyeon wiped the image from his mind. It would not wipe away. Behind him he could hear Hayul's breathing. Carried through the thin wall, even and slow. 16 a minute. A small, warm breath the world had ruled a cost. That breathing went on at Seokhyeon's back. In, and out. Seokhyeon closed his eyes. The edge of the ID in his hand pressed into the calluses on his palm. Calluses built over 15 years of hauling containers. An unedited hand. An original's hand.
Seokhyeon closed the front door. From the inside. The corridor's fluorescent light slipped in thin under the gap of the door, then was gone. Beyond the wall, Hayul's breathing carried faintly on. Seokhyeon took off his shoes and rested his forehead against the cold entryway tile. In the darkness, Hayul's seventeenth breath reached him.
