One day I was watching him draw lines on the paper. He looked up and said,

“You.” I was surprised. Another English word.

“Me,” I said.

He smiled, his face wrinkling.

“You,” he said again. “Won Chul.”

“Me,” I said. “Won Chul is my middle name.”

He nodded and dipped his brush in the inkstone, shaking off some of the extra ink. “You,” he said. “Won Chul.”

“I know my middle name,” I said, getting annoyed.

He talked to me in Korean again for a long time, then motioned for me to come closer.

I walked to him. He smelled like mothballs（卫生球） and fish.

He drew some stick figures overlapping（相互重叠的） each other, swirling（打旋） his brush easily, quickly. “Won,” he said, pointing.

He drew another figure, this time going slowly. The brush made a swish（嗖嗖） sound on the thin rice paper. He pointed to this second figure and said, “Chul.” Bringing me nearer so that I could study the picture, he said, “Won Chul. You.”

“That’s my name?”

He nodded. “Won Chul.”

“That looks neat,” I said.

He pushed it toward me.

“For me?” I asked.

“For Won Chul,” he said.

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