Free Princess Bari by Sok-yong Hwang

and comfort her.
    â€œThere, now. It’ll be morning soon. Then it won’t be as cold.”
    The wind whistling through the trees grew stronger and we heard a groan, like a huge wave bearing down, just before the storm crashed in on us without mercy. Our roof of woven branches flew off. Snow piled up on our blankets and threatened to bury the entire hut. Father sprang up and groped around in the dark for the tree branches and empty fertilizer bags that had served as our roof, but it had all blown away already. He began scooping up snow with his bare hands and tossing it outside, but soon gave up. The snow coming in was much greater than what he could dig out with his hands. When my blanket got so heavy that it was pressing down on my small body and making it hard to breathe, I crawled out and helped Grandmother scoop up the snow with a bowl and our cooking pot. Then I got back under the blanket, rubbed my hands together and tucked them into my armpits to warm them. My teeth chattered.
    The snow didn’t start to die down until close to dawn, and finally stopped completely when the sun rose. Our beloved hut was in a gruesome state. The storm had passed, but the wind was still strong enough to turn the snow that had accumulated on the tree branches into a fine, white powder that hung in the air. Father ran around cutting branches while Grandmother and I collected them and dragged them back to the hut. We were able to do some makeshift repairs.
    When the roof flew off again a few days later, Father despaired. He could have taken more of the vinyl sheeting the farmer would need in the spring to rebuild his greenhouses and used it to build us a roof strong enough to last for years – but he would sooner have taken us back to the farmer’s house and begged him to let us move back in. Father said generosity was like cooked rice: the longer it sat out, the faster it spoiled. In other words, if you kept imposing on people, then when you really needed their help later they would turn their backs on you. Grandmother nodded.
    That day, the three of us were so busy clearing away the snow, shaking out the blankets and rebuilding the roof that we forgot all about Hyun. Father tied branches together with plastic twine to form a frame and wove leafy branches into it, while Grandmother dug out the dry branches and twigs for kindling that had been stacked beside the entrance to the hut, shook out all of the snow and used the wood to get the fire restarted. The smell of the wood burning made me feel warmer already. When we were sitting inside the hut, our breath white in the air, Grandmother finally realized that Hyun was gone.
    â€œWhere did little Hyun go?” she asked.
    She checked under all the blankets, and Father groped around every corner of the hut. We went outside. Father searched all around and found Hyun in a thickly wooded area filled with large trees. She was lying on her side, curled up tight like a dried anchovy. Father picked her up and Grandmother stayed by their side, shaking her head.
    â€œWake up, child!” she said.
    Hyun stayed curled up as though frozen in place. We brought her into the hut, placed her under the blanket and rubbed her hands, feet and legs. She opened her eyes and stared at us as if she’d just woken from a long sleep.
    â€œWhat were you doing out there in the cold?” Grandmother asked.
    â€œI had to pee …”
    â€œYou should’ve come back right away. You almost froze to death!”
    Hyun closed her eyes and didn’t respond. She looked like she was sleeping. Father kept rubbing her hands and feet.
    â€œMother,” he said urgently, “she’s not warming up. Heat up some water and feed it to her.”
    Grandmother went outside, filled the cooking pot with snow and boiled it on the stove. Then she filled a small bowl with warm water and held it up to Hyun’s mouth, but Hyun only sipped enough to wet her tongue a little and went limp