I met Harper at K-Town BBQ, an all-you-can-eat spot with built-in grills and a whole lot of smoke and sesame oil. Even my clothes smelled like it afterward.
I slid into the vinyl booth across from her, already eyeing the bulgogi platter like it owed me money.
While we grilled the meat, I filled her in on everything that had gone down in England. She barely moved. Her chopsticks hovered midair, a strip of beef dangling from her tongs like she'd forgotten it existed. Her eyes didn't blink much either.
I ate like I hadn't seen food in a week.
I went through two plates of galbi and spicy pork, then washed it down with a cold local IPA the server said was "bold and citrusy." It was from Boulder. He was right.
When I got to the part about the human-skin mask, I picked up a piece of grilled
