The warning light came on at the edge of Zone 7. Eunji lifted the meter above her dust mask. Particulate concentration: 482 micrograms. The display board had been red for three hours already. She entered the reading into her terminal and walked to the next measurement point. Beneath her feet the asphalt was blurred over with dust. Every step left a footprint. Dust settled back over each print, slowly erasing it. There was no one on the road. No vehicles either. Zone 7 was rated no outdoor activity permitted. Only those with an air-quality monitor's license, like Eunji, could go outside. The sky was yellow. The sun bled dimly behind the dust. An afternoon that cast no shadows. This year there had been 14 days rated 'Good' for particulate levels. The other 72 were all 'Bad' or worse. Last year 'Good' came 47 days out of the year; the year before, 65. It was shrinking every year. In ten years 'Good' might reach 0 days. No one talked about that.
She took the capsule case out of her pocket. Inside the clear plastic case, 3 white capsules were left. There should have been 7. This week's ration had been cut by 4. Eunji took out one capsule and put it in her mouth. She swallowed it without water. A bitter taste caught in her throat. After swallowing she ran her tongue across the roof of her mouth. The dry aftertaste peculiar to the coating still lingered.
Clean Air Capsule. A lung protectant the government issued to outdoor workers by mandate. Take a capsule and it blocks particulate matter from depositing in the alveoli for 72 hours. Eunji had taken one every day for 9 years. From her very first day assigned as a monitor. Back then the zone chief had handed her the capsule case and said: Don't skip a single day. Eunji never skipped once. 3,285 capsules over 9 years. Not one missed. Every swallow tasted bitter, and once it was down she forgot.
On the boundary road crossing into Zone 8, Eunji's terminal buzzed. It was a notice from the ration management system. 'Notice of March Ration Adjustment. Applies to outdoor-grade monitors, Zone 7 and below. Weekly ration changed from 7 capsules to 5. Reason: disruption in raw material supply.' Eunji closed the notice. The screen went dark. She put the terminal in her pocket. Five capsules meant 0.7 a day. She couldn't keep to the 72-hour cycle. Short on capsules, the protective effect dropped. A hole opened in the shield. When the protection dropped, dust built up in the lungs. Eunji closed the capsule case and put it in her pocket. She'd taken one today anyway, so she was fine until tomorrow.
At the checkpoint on the Zone 8 boundary, Eunji scanned her pass. An attendant sat inside the checkpoint booth. Inside the booth an air purifier was running. The attendant wore no mask. It was an indoor-grade zone, after all. For indoor-grade workers the capsule was optional. You could take it or not. Among the indoor-grade, only 12 percent took the capsule. The other 88 percent could smell things. The smell of coffee. The smell of rain. The smell of spring. Eunji took her pass and passed through the checkpoint. Inside the booth the attendant was drinking coffee. Eunji watched the steam rise from the cup. Whether it gave off a coffee smell, she couldn't know. Eunji didn't think that was strange. Not until then. Eunji touched the capsule case in her pocket.
It was 4 p.m. when she got back to the station. The air curtain at the building entrance blew the dust off Eunji's protective suit. As the dust fell beneath the curtain, gray powder piled up on the floor. A cleaning robot came over at once and sucked the powder up. In the lobby she took off the protective suit and went to the changing room. She stepped into the shower booth and turned on the water. Hot water ran down her back. Eunji watched the stream running off her hair. It was gray. Water mixed with dust. Shampoo suds drifted and swirled over the gray water. Eunji stood there another 3 minutes, until the stream ran clear.
As she came out of the changing room, she bumped into someone in the corridor. Their shoulders collided and the other person's capsule case fell to the floor. Eunji picked it up and handed it back.
“Eunji, did you check the March ration?”
It was Jeongmin. A monitor for the same zone. Someone who'd been posted to this station 2 years before Eunji. In the case now back in Jeongmin's hand, she could see 2 capsules.
“I checked. Down to 5.”
“Down isn't the word for it. There's no way to keep the cycle now.”
Jeongmin shook the capsule case. The capsules rattled inside. A hard sound. Like a pill bottle being shaken at a pharmacy.
“I didn't take my capsule yesterday. Thought I'd save one. But this morning I noticed something strange.”
“Something strange?”
Jeongmin lowered her voice. She took half a step toward Eunji.
“A smell.”
Eunji looked at her.
“What smell?”
“I was eating breakfast in the canteen this morning, and I could smell doenjang stew. An actual doenjang-stew smell. For the first time in 5 years.”
Eunji's eyes fixed on Jeongmin.
“You usually can't?”
Jeongmin looked at Eunji. Her mouth opened, then closed. Jeongmin's hand seized Eunji's arm. There was force in the fingers. Her nails left crescent marks on Eunji's arm.
“Eunji—when was the last time you smelled anything?”
Eunji went to answer. She opened her mouth. No answer came. She groped through her memory. A smell. The last thing she'd smelled. The smell of coffee. Of flowers. Of earth after rain. The steam off a cup of coffee she'd seen at a checkpoint. Nothing surfaced. Eunji touched her nose. She was breathing. Air was going in and out. But there was no smell. For 9 years she hadn't registered that there was no smell. Eunji's hand came down. Her fingers were cold.
Jeongmin let go of Eunji's arm. The two of them stood in the corridor. There was only the sound of the air conditioning running. The fluorescent lights stretched their shadows long across the floor.
“It was the same for me.”
Jeongmin said. Her voice was small.
“I didn't know until I stopped taking the capsule. That there was no smell. To feel you've lost something that isn't there, you first have to know it was once there.”
That night Eunji didn't take her capsule. She skipped the last capsule of the 72-hour cycle. She lay in bed and looked at the ceiling. She drew a breath in through her nose. No smell at all. Not the bedding. Not her own body. Eunji brought the pillow to her nose. A pillow washed 3 days ago. Nothing. She set the pillow down and looked at the ceiling. The fluorescent light on the ceiling was off. In the dark, Eunji put a finger to her own nose. Her breath was coming out. Warm breath. But breath with no smell riding on it. She took her finger away from her nose. She looked into the dark of the ceiling. Sleep wouldn't come.
The next morning, Eunji opened her eyes in bed. She buried her face in the pillow. No smell at all. She washed her face at the basin. She brought the soap to her nose. Nothing. Eunji set the soap down. Water ran down her face. She wiped her face with a towel. The towel had no smell either.
The second day. Eunji passed the flowerbed in front of the station. Air-purifying plants were planted in it. Thick-leaved foliage plants. A flowerbed she passed every day. Eunji walked past without stopping. Three steps on, she stopped. Something had brushed the tip of her nose. Faint. Almost nothing. But there was something there. Eunji went back and crouched in front of the plants. She brought her nose close to a leaf. The smell of grass. A damp, sharp, green smell. The rims of Eunji's eyes went hot. She wiped them with the back of her hand. The back of her hand was wet. Eunji stayed crouched in front of the flowerbed for a long time, not moving. A colleague passing by asked if she was all right. Eunji nodded and stood up. There was dirt on her knees. She didn't brush it off.
The third day. The smells were coming back. The disinfectant in the corridor. The rice in the canteen. The damp of the changing room. A colleague's sweat. Eunji's world had suddenly grown one layer thicker. To a world that had held only sound and light, a layer called smell had been added. All day Eunji drew breath in through her nose. She smelled everything. She smelled the kimchi stew from lunch off her spoon. She smelled paint off the corridor wall. She smelled soap off the back of her own hand. Eunji hadn't known soap smelled this sweet. No—she had known. 9 years ago she had known. That knowing had quietly disappeared over 9 years. Every day, one capsule had stopped up Eunji's nose. 3,285 times. Eunji smelled the soap on the back of her hand again.
After her shift Eunji went outside the station. Without her dust mask. Just for 1 minute. She took the mask off and drew a breath in through her nose. The smell of dust. A dry, bitter smell. A smell like metal. For the first time she smelled the air she'd breathed every day for 9 years. Eunji coughed. Once. Twice. Her lungs were reacting. As the 72 hours passed, the capsule's protective film was thinning. The fine dust had begun to reach her alveoli. Eunji stopped coughing and drew another breath in. Beyond the dust there were other smells. Asphalt. Grass. Exhaust fumes drifting in from somewhere. The world was full of smells. For 9 years only Eunji hadn't known it. She put the mask back on and came inside. Her heart was beating fast. Eunji laid a hand on her chest. Her heart was knocking against the inside of her ribs.
I met Jeongmin at lunch in the cafeteria. Eunji sat down across from him.
"My smell came back too."
Jeongmin's chopsticks stopped. He looked at her.
"How many days?"
"3 days now."
"Doenjang stew?"
Eunji shook her head.
"Grass. From the flowerbed."
Jeongmin set his chopsticks down. Metal rang against the tray.
"9 years. We've both been taking the capsule for over 9 years. For 9 years we lived without smell and nobody knew. It'll be the same for everyone else."
"Did you ask the others?"
Jeongmin shook his head.
"Not yet. I'm scared."
Eunji looked at the doenjang stew on her tray. Steam was rising off it. She bent her head and brought her nose close to the bowl. A salty smell. The smell of doenjang. A smell that hadn't been there 3 days ago. She picked up her spoon, lifted a mouthful of the stew, put it in her mouth. The taste was different. As the smell came back, the taste had changed with it. Jeongmin was watching her. His eyes were wet.
On the 4th day, Eunji went into the archive in the basement of the management office. It was where they kept the air-quality readings and the health records of the monitors. The fluorescent lights burned white, and the fans in the server racks hummed low. She searched the health records under her own name. 9 years of records. Every year's checkup results, stored. She opened the ear-nose-throat section.
'Olfactory function: within normal range.'
For 9 years, every single year, it read 'within normal range.' Eunji stared at the screen. For 9 years she hadn't been able to smell a thing, and yet: 'within normal range.' She opened the detailed record of the exam. Method of olfactory testing: 'self-reported.' Not a machine test. The monitor herself checked a box: 'can smell' or 'cannot smell.' Eunji remembered ticking 'can smell' every year. Because she hadn't even known she couldn't.
She searched Jeongmin's records too. Same result. 'Olfactory function: within normal range.' She searched the records of all 43 monitors in Zone 7. All 43, every year, olfactory function 'within normal range.' Eunji sat in the chair and looked at the screen. All 43 had reported that they could smell. Of the 43, how many actually could? She widened the search to the whole country. Total outdoor-grade monitors nationwide: 12,400. Those who had taken the capsule for 3 months or longer: 12,152. Every one of them, olfactory function 'within normal range.' Eunji took her hands off the keyboard and leaned back. The chair creaked. The hum of the server-rack fans filled the room. More than 12,000 people were living without smell. And none of them knew.
Eunji changed the search terms. 'Clean Air Capsule side effects.' No results. 'Capsule olfactory.' No results. 'Sensory change.' No results. She widened the terminal's search to all documents. The area of internal reports — the one ordinary monitors had no clearance for — was locked. A gray padlock icon. She couldn't get in with her own access. Eunji stared at the padlock icon for a long while. The answer was on the other side of the locked door.
Eunji left the archive. She walked down the corridor. She stopped in front of the management office on the 2nd floor. The door was shut. Beside it, a card reader. She held her card to it. Red light. Access denied. She lowered the card. The reader's red light died out over the back of her hand.
Eunji took her terminal out of her pocket. She sent Jeongmin a message. 'Does anyone know the access code to the zone chief's office?' Jeongmin's reply came 3 minutes later. 'Why?' 'To read the health records.' Jeongmin didn't answer for 5 minutes. Eunji stood in the corridor gripping the terminal. There was a smell of disinfectant. A smell she wouldn't have noticed 4 days ago. The terminal buzzed. 6 digits came through. Below them, a single line. 'Be careful.'
That night, 11 p.m. Eunji went up to the 2nd floor of the management office. The stairwell's emergency light lit the ground at her feet. The zone chief's office. She keyed the number into the card reader. One finger slipped. She entered it again. Green light. The door opened. Eunji went inside. She didn't turn on the lights. By the glow of her terminal alone she powered up the computer on the zone chief's desk. The white light of the boot screen lit her face. In the dark office only the monitor shone. She logged into the document system with administrator privileges. She typed into the search box. 'Clean Air Capsule long-term use.'
'Report on the Effects of Long-Term Clean Air Capsule Use. Confidential.'
The document opened. Eunji's eyes fixed on the screen. The report had been written 4 years earlier. Authoring department: Drug Safety Division, Ministry of Health and Environment. 32 pages. She opened the executive summary.
'The nanofiber coating agent that is the principal component of the Clean Air Capsule, in the process of forming a protective film over the surface of the alveoli, irreversibly blocks the receptors of the olfactory nerve. With continuous use of 3 months or more, olfactory function is lost by 95 percent or more. This effect is not intended; it is a structural side effect.'
Eunji scrolled the screen. Her wrist was trembling. The cursor shook. She gripped her right wrist with her left hand.
The next page of the report. Statistics on users by outdoor grade. Among monitors in Zone 7 and below, those who had taken the capsule for 3 months or more: 98 percent of the total. Estimated rate of olfactory function loss: 97 percent. Eunji looked at the number. 97 percent. Of the 43 monitors in Zone 7, 42. 42, Eunji and Jeongmin among them. Eunji lifted her eyes from the screen. The fluorescent light on the ceiling shone white. She looked back at the screen. The number hadn't changed. 97 percent.
The next page held the policy recommendations. 'Should the loss of smell be disclosed, outdoor workers are expected to refuse the capsule, and class-action lawsuits are anticipated. If the capsules are refused, a sharp surge in lung disease from particulate matter is inevitable. Recommendation: reclassify the loss of smell not as a side effect but as a "sensory adaptation response," and, in health screenings, convert the olfactory test from instrument measurement to self-report.'
Self-report. The self-report checked every year for 9 years. Ask someone who doesn't know they can't smell whether they can smell, and the answer was always 'yes.'
Eunji copied the report onto her terminal. File size 4.2 megabytes. The progress bar crept from the left of the screen to the right. 100 percent. Eunji shut off the computer and left the office. She closed the door. The corridor was dark. Only the green of the emergency light stretched in a long reflection across the floor. Eunji stood before the office door and drew a breath. She could smell the building. The smell of concrete and disinfectant and old carpet. The smell of this building she hadn't caught in 9 years. Eunji breathed it in as she went down the stairs. She slipped the terminal into her pocket. 4.2 megabytes. Inside it was the reason 12,000 noses had been stopped up.
The next morning, Eunji went out to the edge of Zone 7. Dust mask. Meter. Terminal. And in her pocket, the capsule case. The last 1 pill was inside. Eunji made her rounds of the 3 measurement points. She recorded the readings. 478. 501. 494. Red numbers. Dust off the road blew up on the wind and clung to her hazmat suit. The white cloth of the suit was turning yellow. Eunji drew a breath through the mask. The air that came through the filter carried a faint smell of dust. A smell the filter couldn't strain out. 5 days ago even this smell wouldn't have been there.
At the 4th measurement point Eunji took out the capsule case. She opened it. She drew out the last 1 pill. A white capsule on her palm. Eunji lifted the dust mask a little and brought the capsule to her nose. There was a faint chemical smell. A sharp, dry smell. The smell of the thing she had swallowed every day for 9 years, and only on the 5th day did she catch it.
Eunji put the capsule back in the case. She closed the case. She didn't slip it into her pocket. She held it in her left hand.
With her right hand she took out the terminal. The report file was saved on it. Eunji opened the file. She looked at the list of recipients. There were 3 options. The internal audit team. A news outlet. The Citizens' Health Watch Network. Eunji chose the 3rd. She laid her thumb over the send button. She didn't press it. Her thumb stopped over the button. The wind stirred the sleeve of her hazmat suit. Eunji looked at the display board. 512 micrograms. Work in this air without the capsule and it's 3 years. In 3 years, 40 percent lung capacity. After that, an oxygen respirator.
If she sent the file, her access record would remain. Unauthorized entry into the zone chief's office. Leaking a classified document. Eunji would lose her monitor's credentials. Lose the credentials, and the capsule rations would stop. Work in the particulate matter without the capsule and the lungs wouldn't hold out. But swallow the capsule and the smells would vanish again. The smell of the world, returned after 5 days, would vanish again. The smell of grass, too. The smell of soybean stew, too. This bitter, dry smell of dust, too.
The wind blew. Air that had passed through the dust mask's filter went into her lungs. Faintly, past the mask, the smell of dust seeped in. The smell that had come back on the 5th day. Eunji breathed it in.
She pressed down with her thumb. The send button went in. A transmission-complete notice came up on the terminal screen. Eunji closed the notice.
She looked at the capsule case in her left hand. She opened it. She drew out the last 1 pill. A white capsule on her palm. Eunji did not put the capsule in her mouth. Holding it between her fingers, she lifted the meter. 200 meters to the next measurement point. Eunji walked slowly. One step at a time. Inside the dust mask her breath dampened the filter. Past the filter the smell of dust seeped through. A bitter, dry smell. Eunji walked, breathing it in. The red numbers on the display board blinked behind her back. 512. 508. 519.
