It was during Thursday's night shift that Jinu noticed the output anomaly on the Block 3 Reactor. A warning light came up on the monitor. Yellow. Thank God it wasn't red. Last month, when red had come up in Block 12, the Source died of cardiac arrest. The Reactor shut down and all of Block 12 went dark for 4 hours. Refrigerators quit and elevators froze. There were 3,400 complaints filed. A maintenance technician wrote a letter of apology. It was the Source who died, but it was the technician who wrote the apology. Red meant the death of a Source. Yellow meant output fluctuation. Jinu set down his coffee and checked the console. Reactor Unit 7, assigned to Block 3. Output was up 14 percent. The tumor's growth rate had exceeded projections.
According to the Reactor management manual, any output fluctuation of 10 percent or more required a check on the Source's condition. Jinu opened the Source information tab for Unit 7. Source number, tumor location, contract term, monthly rent. Personal information was normally masked. But in the event of an output anomaly, it could be accessed with administrator privileges. Jinu pressed the button to look up the Source's identity.
Name: Park Sun-ja. Year of birth: 1971. Tumor location: left lung. Stage: 4. Contract start date: March 12, 2054. Monthly rent: 2.8 million won.
Jinu's hand froze over the console. Park Sun-ja. Born 1971. He rubbed his eyes and looked at the screen again, but the letters were lodged there like stone. Park Sun-ja. Left lung. Stage 4.
Jinu got up from his chair. He got up and walked a lap around the control room. He sat back down. He looked at the screen. Park Sun-ja. It was still Park Sun-ja. Jinu picked up the phone. He started dialing and stopped. It was 2 in the morning. His mother would be asleep at this hour. Even while his mother slept, her tumor was producing electricity. Block 3. 4,200 apartment units. 320 shops. 1,800 streetlights. The cancer cells growing in his mother's lung were keeping all of it lit.
Jinu put the phone down. He drank his coffee. It had gone cold.
The next morning, Jinu finished his shift and went to his mother's place. He took the bus. It passed through Block 3. Through the bus window he could see the streetlights. He could see the traffic signals. He could see the convenience-store signs. All of them lit. All of them running on the electricity from his mother's lung. Jinu stood holding the bus strap. The strap was slippery. His hands were sweating. His mother was in the kitchen simmering doenjang stew. Wearing an apron. Steam was rising from the pot. Her back was more bent than before. But her movements were natural. She lifted the ladle to taste, tilted her head, and added a little more salt.
"Have you eaten?"
"Yes."
"Liar. It's written all over your face."
His mother turned around. She was smiling. The creases in her cheeks were deep. Her lips were dry. Her complexion was a sickly yellowish tint. Why was he only seeing this now. Jaundice. A sign that the cancer had spread to her liver.
"Mom."
"What. Sit down. It's almost ready."
Jinu sat down at the table. His mother set the stew on the table. She scooped out the rice. She brought out the side dishes. Kimchi, stir-fried anchovies, bean sprouts. An ordinary breakfast. His mother sat down across from him. As she sat, she coughed once. It was a short cough. She covered her mouth with her hand. When she lowered her hand, there was nothing on her palm. Not yet. She took a spoonful of rice. Put it in her mouth. Chewed. Swallowed. Jinu watched his mother's throat move. Watched the food travel down her esophagus. Inside his mother's lung, the tumor was growing. From that tumor, nanotubes connected to the mitochondria. Every time a cancer cell divided, energy was being extracted. Even in this moment. Even in this moment, as his mother ate her doenjang stew. The streetlights of Block 3 were lit.
"So, Mom... yesterday I did an inspection on Unit 7."
His mother's spoon didn't stop. She took another spoonful of stew.
"Oh yeah?"
"I looked up the Source's identity."
His mother swallowed the rest of the stew and quietly set down her spoon. She looked Jinu straight in the eye. There was no trace of surprise. Her eyes said the thing that was coming had come.
"When did you find out?"
"Last night."
His mother nodded. She took a sip of water. She set the cup on the table.
"With you working at that plant, I figured you'd find out someday."
"Why... why didn't you tell me?"
"Do you really have to ask? If I'd told you, it was obvious you'd make a scene like this."
Jinu's mouth shut. She was right. His mother took another bite of rice. Ordinarily. The motion of a person eating breakfast. Not the motion of a person with stage 4 cancer in her lung. But the stage 4 cancer was there. And that cancer was earning money.
"The rent was 2.8 million won."
"That's right."
His mother picked up an anchovy with her chopsticks.
"It was 2 million at first, but as the tumor got bigger it went up. To 2.8 three months ago."
Jinu looked at his mother. His mother was chewing an anchovy. Jinu's monthly salary was 3.1 million won. He thought about calling his younger sister, Sujin. Whether Sujin knew about this. She wouldn't. There was no way their mother had told her. Sujin was in the middle of final exams. If he called, Jinu didn't know what he was supposed to say. Sis, Mom has lung cancer. And that lung cancer is paying your tuition. Jinu didn't make the call. The rent on his mother's tumor had come to nearly the whole of Jinu's salary.
"What did you do with the money."
"Put toward the deposit on your apartment. And your sister's tuition." Mom picked up a piece of kimchi. "The rest went into savings."
Jinu's spoon came down on the table. It made a sound. Metal striking wood. "Mom. Take that money out and you can get treatment. Even at stage 4, if you do the nanocell therapy alongside—" "You have any idea what treatment costs?" She set her chopstick and spoon down with a sharp clack. "The first round of nanocell runs 48 million won. Do the second and it's over 80 million. Twice your yearly salary. And even then the cure rate is 34 percent." She took a sip of water. "2.8 million won a month for 18 months comes to 50.4 million. Your deposit comes out of it, your sister's tuition comes out of it, the savings pile up. That's money you can count on."
"What good is the money if you're dead."
Mom laughed. The corners of her mouth lifted. Lines gathered at her eyes. "Jinu. Which do you think is better—me getting treatment and sitting on a mountain of debt for a 34 percent shot at surviving, or me earning money, setting the two of you up on your feet, and then going?"
Jinu couldn't say anything. It was as if a hot lump had lodged in his throat. Steam was rising off the doenjang stew. Mom spooned some into his rice bowl. "Eat. It's getting cold." She scooped more rice into her own bowl. "And one more thing. The rental contract has a condolence clause, for if I die. 20 million won. I set it up to go out in your name." She said it chewing on kimchi. A death-condolence payment. She had already calculated the price of her own death. Jinu's stomach clenched. The smell of the doenjang stew turned suddenly foul, like raw fish.
Jinu left his mother's apartment. As he pulled the front door shut he heard her doing the dishes. The clink of bowls. Running water. Ordinary sounds. The fact that a tumor was growing inside his mother's lungs was not contained in those sounds. The sounds were ordinary. Jinu rode the elevator down. The lobby lights were on. This building wasn't on Block 3. It was Block 7. Power from a different Reactor. Someone else's tumor. Jinu crossed the lobby and stepped outside. The sun was up. The March light was warm.
Jinu went back to the plant. Night shift. He opened the door to the control room and walked in. Twelve monitors ran along the wall. Each displayed a Reactor number and an output reading. Unit 1 through Unit 12. The other twelve units were managed from the second-floor control room. 24 Reactors. 24 Sources. Bioreactors carried 38 percent of the city's entire power supply. The rest was solar and wind. Just two years ago the bioreactors' share had been 12 percent. As the number of Sources grew, the share tripled. Not because there were more cancer patients. Because more patients were choosing to lease. Jinu looked at the Unit 7 screen. The output graph was climbing in real time. A tumor-growth curve. Up and to the right. 17 percent bigger than three months ago. Current estimated tumor mass, 1.2 kilograms. Converted to output, 3.7 megawatts. A small reactor puts out 4 megawatts. His mother's tumor was producing power equal to 92 percent of a small reactor. According to the manual, once a tumor's mass passes 1.5 kilograms the Source's survivable window shortens sharply. 1.2 kilograms. The time left until 1.5. Jinu did the math. At the current growth rate, four to six months.
Jinu looked out the control room window. He could see the lights of Block 3. Light leaking from apartment windows. The orange glow of streetlamps. The white glare of a convenience store sign. All of that light was coming out of his mother's lungs. Every time her cancer cells divided, those lights stayed on and never flickered.
In the seat beside him his coworker Jaehyun was eating chips. Saewookkang. The crunching echoed through the control room. "Hey, Unit 7's putting out great numbers. Looks like a performance bonus this month." Jaehyun said it watching the monitor.
Jinu said nothing, just glared at the screen. Jaehyun shot him a glance.
"Hey, what's with the face? You feeling okay?"
"Drop it."
Jaehyun tossed another chip into his mouth. "Unit 7's Source is in good shape, right? Output up 14 percent means the tumor's growing strong. That's good. Steadies the power for our Block." He grinned. "Maybe we should give the Source a bonus."
Jinu's hand closed into a fist. On his knee. Jaehyun didn't see it. "Jaehyun."
"Yeah?"
"Hey. What does a Source have to do to cancel their contract?"
Jaehyun set the chip bag down. "Cancel? You pay a penalty. 50 percent of the rent for the remaining term. Plus the Reactor removal cost, maybe 12 million won? Why, though?"
"Just wondering."
Jaehyun shrugged. Reached for the chips again. Crunch. "Oh, right. They're actually reviewing that Source bonus for Unit 7. Extra 300,000 won a month for Sources in the top 5 percent of output. The company wants to hold on to its good Sources too." He grinned. Jinu didn't. His mother's tumor was turning in an outstanding performance. It qualified for a bonus. His mother. His mother's cancer.
Jinu ran the numbers. Six months left on the contract. 50 percent of 2.8 million won was 1.4 million, times 6: 8.4 million. Reactor separation, 12 million. Subtotal, 20.4 million. Then the treatment, 48 million. Grand total, 68.4 million. Jinu's account held 4.3 million. His sister Sujin was a junior in college. Tuition ran 4.2 million a semester. Sujin's part-time work brought in 800,000 a month. His mother's lease payments covered the rest. If Jinu took out a loan for the treatment, the monthly repayment would be 1.5 million at the least. Subtract rent and living costs from his current salary and 600,000 was left. The numbers didn't work. Turn them any way he liked, they didn't work.
Jinu looked at the monitor. The output graph for Unit 7. Climbing to the upper right. His mother's tumor was growing. The more it grew, the higher the output. The higher the output, the higher Jinu's bonus. Jinu was drawing a bonus off his mother's cancer. Last month's bonus had come to 420,000 won. He didn't know exactly how much of it came from Unit 7, but Unit 7 was the highest-output unit in the district, so it wouldn't be small. His mother's tumor was putting money in Jinu's account. His stomach twisted. He wanted the bathroom. He held it.
3 a.m. Jinu left the control room and went up to the roof. He smoked a cigarette. He didn't smoke; he'd bummed one off a coworker. The smoke went into his lungs. His mother's lungs held a tumor. Jinu's lungs held cigarette smoke. From the roof he could see down over Block 3. The lights were packed tight. Lights that didn't go out even at 3 a.m. Convenience stores, streetlamps, emergency-exit signs. Jinu smoked and watched those lights. He stood leaning on the railing. The wind blew. The predawn wind of March was cold. The tip of his nose went red. The cigarette smoke scattered on the wind. Beyond Block 3 he could see the lights of other blocks. The whole city was shining. Jinu wondered what percentage of this light came out of someone's tumor. The city was being lit by cancer. The smoke stung his eyes. Whether it was tears or the smoke, Jinu didn't bother to tell apart.
The following Monday. Jinu stood outside the plant director's office. He knocked. He went in. The director was sitting at his desk, looking at a laptop. He caught sight of Jinu and pushed his glasses up.
"I'd like to request the termination of Unit 7's Source contract."
The director's eyebrows went up.
"Unit 7? That's the best-output unit we've got. What's your reason?"
"The Source is my mother."
The director took off his glasses. Wiped them. Didn't put them back on. He set them on the desk. He looked at Jinu. He studied him for a moment, let out a long breath, and drew a file from the cabinet. A practiced motion.
"And the Source's wishes?"
"I'll confirm them."
"If the Source herself doesn't want it terminated, you can't terminate it on administrator authority. You know that."
The director said it as he put his glasses back on.
"And honestly, pull Unit 7 now and you blow a hole in Block 3's power supply. Two weeks minimum to bring in a replacement Reactor. Unstable supply the whole time. The complaints will pour in."
The director looked at Jinu. It wasn't pity. It was an administrator's gaze.
"I understand your situation, but the decision belongs to the Source."
Jinu knew. He knew, too, that his mother wouldn't want it terminated. 2.8 million won. The jeonse deposit. His sister's tuition. The savings. Money you could count on.
Jinu came out of the director's office. He walked down the corridor. A bioreactor promotional poster was stuck to the corridor wall.
"Your cells light the city."
A photo of a smiling middle-aged woman. A woman about his mother's age. Jinu stopped in front of the poster. The woman in the photo was smiling. She wore a pale-green hospital gown. On her chest you could see the bioreactor connection port. A round metal device. Fixed to the skin. His mother's chest would have one too. Jinu had never seen it. His mother had never shown him. Jinu pulled his eyes from the poster and walked on.
That evening, Jinu called his mother.
"Mom. I can get the money. For the treatment. If I take out a loan—"
"Jinu."
His mother's voice came across the phone. Calm.
"You think your mother can't do arithmetic?"
She paused a moment. He could hear her breathing. Rougher than before. The tumor was pressing on her lungs.
"Take out the loan and get the treatment, and it's a 34 percent chance I live and a 100 percent chance the debt is left behind. To you. Paying it off, you couldn't marry, couldn't buy a home. Why do you think I leased the tumor? So I wouldn't be a burden on you kids."
Jinu's mouth wouldn't open. His grip tightened on the phone.
"I've already thought it all through. You're only 28. You've got a lot of life ahead of you. Don't lay your twenties down on your mother's treatment."
"Mom. Please."
Jinu's voice cracked.
"The doenjang stew was good, wasn't it? I'll make it for you again. Hanging up now."
The call ended. Jinu looked down at the phone. The call-ended screen. Beside his mother's name was a heart emoji. An emoji he'd saved back in middle school. 16 years ago. Back then his mother was healthy. No tumor in her lungs. Not connected to a Reactor. The heart emoji glowed on the screen. The call duration was displayed. 3 minutes 42 seconds. For all that time his mother's tumor had gone on producing power. Block 3's lights were on. Jinu's jeonse deposit was piling up. His sister's tuition was being provided for.
Jinu went back to the control room. He sat down in front of the monitor. Unit 7's output graph. Rising to the right. Jinu looked at the graph. The slope of that graph was the time his mother had left. The steeper the slope, the higher the output. The higher the output, the faster his mother's tumor was growing. The steeper the slope, the sooner his mother would die.
Jinu opened Unit 7's control panel on the console. There was an output-adjustment slider. A function that regulated the Reactor's energy extraction rate. Lower the extraction rate and the load on the tumor eased. The tumor's growth slowed. His mother's life could be extended. But then the power supply to Block 3 dropped. The manual forbade any adjustment at an operator's discretion.
Jinu laid his hand on the slider. He did not move it. On the monitor, Block 3's power consumption scrolled by in real time. 4,200 apartment households. People sleeping inside them. Refrigerators running. Air purifiers running. Children asleep beneath their night-lights. Jinu took his hand off the slider. His fingertips were damp. Sweat. He wiped his hand on his trousers. Pull the slider down and his mother's life could be extended. But Block 3's power would grow unstable. Complaints would come in. Jinu would write an apology report. He could be fired. Fired meant no salary. No salary meant he couldn't cover his mother's treatment. There was no way out in any direction.
Jinu leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling. The fluorescent lights were on. This light, too, was coming from some Reactor somewhere. From someone somewhere's tumor. Jinu looked at the fluorescent light and thought. This plant had 24 Reactors. 24 Sources. 24 someones' mothers, fathers, sons, daughters were leasing out their tumors. His mother was one of them.
Jinu looked at the monitor. Unit 7's output. Stable. His mother's tumor was producing power, steadily. Jinu took a sip of coffee. It was hot. It scalded his tongue. The pain spread from the tip of his tongue. He set the cup down and looked at the monitor. Tomorrow morning his mother would make doenjang stew. Inside his mother's lungs the tumor would grow. Block 3's lights would be on. Knowing all of it, Jinu was simply watching the monitor, nothing more. The slope of Unit 7's output graph ticked minutely upward. 0.3 percent. His mother's tumor had grown a little more. Block 3's lights had grown a little brighter. Jinu took another sip of coffee. This time it wasn't hot. It had gone cold. 4 a.m. Four hours until the shift change. Jinu sat in front of the monitor. His mother's tumor was producing power. Watching over it was his job. Below the monitor, beside the keyboard, sat the gimbap his mother had packed, wrapped in plastic. She had handed it to him at the front door that morning. Jinu had not unwrapped it. Through the plastic he could see the black of the seaweed and the white of the rice. His mother's hands had made it. His mother's lungs made power, and his mother's hands made gimbap. Jinu left the gimbap beside the monitor. He neither ate it nor threw it away.
