8
We pull up outside the cop shop.
“What are we doing?” Ji-min asks, sat on top of my holdall on the backseat of the Peugeot—belt tucked under an armpit.
“Gonna drop you off with the police,” I say. “They’ll take good care of you.”
Ji-min shakes her head. “No.”
I turn in my seat. “What do you mean, no?”
“I don’t want to.”
“It’s the only option. You’ll be safe there.”
“I don’t know them,” Ji-min says. “Mum says never talk to strangers.”
“I’m a stranger,” I say.
“No you’re not,” Ji-min says, as if I’m talking bollocks. “You’re my uncle.”
“Your what?”
“Uncle Charlie."
“How do you know my name?”
“I’ve seen your picture in Mum’s albums. She said your name is Charlie and you’re her favourite uncle.”
"Really? She said that?"
"You look a lot older," Ji-min says.
"Oh, thanks."
"Bu
