The day of their second kiss, it was August, the streets shimmered with heat, and being outside was a punishment. Chanhee's house had a cool underground feeling, less like Los Angeles and more a long-lost world from the other side of the ocean. Her mother had brought that world with her in carved masks, silk scrolls of horned demons and men with titanic bellies, and celdaon vases with tiny painted cranes, which made Mark want to get his markers and fill the vast white spaces that the artist had neglected. The incense snaking through the hall was familiar, as was the smell of Chanhee's shampoo and the tinning of drums and wailing songs he'd gotten used to, now even enjoyed.