Before six o’clock, when the rain was sparse, Sang whose hand surrounded a boy’s neck and Mang who carried a four-year-old girl on his back, arrived in pairs. Mang was well-dressed in a bright black suit, a hard white collar, a thick fawn sweater and a short satin scarf with hand-made silk patterns. His eyes were like the eyes of a crab. A thin, skewed smile hung in one corner of his mouth with cold stiff ness, like a sinister-looking crack on a glass mask. Without wearing a tie, he looked too good. Once he entered the house, his focus was never on Sang, whose body was wrapped tight, like armor or an old turtle with its neck hidden in the shell.