Return Policy

Return Policy all sales of time are final, mostly The shop had no name, only a sign that said RETURNS, and it appeared on Gwanmun Street the way mushrooms appear: overnight, plausibly, as if it had merely been overlooked. Ha-jun went in with last Tuesday. "I'd like to return this," he said, and set the day on the counter, where it sat gray and heavy, smelling faintly of the words he'd said to his brother and the door he'd closed on the end of them. The clerk examined it without touching it, the way jewelers examine other people's grief. "Mm. Used." "Barely. I mostly regretted it in real time." "Regret counts as use. That's policy." She tapped the sign behind her, which listed, in small print, everything time could not be: refunded, transferred, blamed on traffic. "Days are non-refundable. I can offer you an exchange." "For a better

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