When my mother was pregnant, she dreamed of a pig wallowing in shit. She was delighted; pigs symbolize wealth. Now I live in a basement apartment that stinks of sewer gas. Pregnancy dreams never lie, and sometimes I hate Heaven’s sense of humor.

But I’m getting even. My father left me the gogok, tucked between the pages of our family genealogy book: a jade comma that can peel a pregnancy dream off one sleeper and paste it onto another. Now I’m the top-rated dream reseller in Seoul. And a message came into my MNet account just a few days ago: some big shot exec offering ten billion won for something in the tigers-and-dragons genre. His wife’s pregnant, and he wants a brilliant future for his unborn son, guaranteed by Heaven—and me.

“I hate this,” my wife mutters to her uneaten radish soup. “You’re like a reverse Hong Gildong. Good fortune for the rich babies, nothing for the poor ones.”

“It pays the rent, doesn’t it? If your mom—” Didn’t need so much help, I don’t say, but of course she hears it.

“I know! I know, I just…” She wilts. “I wish things were different.”

“They will be. Soon.” My spoon scrapes the bowl’s bottom. I kiss her cheek. “I’m off. Love you.”

She’s still at the table when I zip my Adidas jacket, and head out to hunt. The gogok’s smooth curve nestles in one pocket. Polypropylene snap-cap vials rattle in the other. A quick metro ride—Sangbong tonight—and I’m threading through cramped alleys just off the main drag. Yellow windows flicker dark; the gogok purrs as people fall asleep, and dream.

Soon the purring deepens, like a cat when you find the right spot beneath its chin. Someone’s dreaming her child’s future into being. I lean against dirty bricks and let it in. Green-dappled shade, a roof of pale-bellied gourds. One splits at my touch. Cooked rice spills out, overflowing my cupped hands, soft between my teeth, warm in my throat. I twirl the gogok between my fingers, winding the dream into an empty vial, and shut the cap on the last detail: perfect. A moment with a fine-tipped Sharpie—number, date, entry in my Notes app—and I move on.

It’s a lean night. I pass over a dark-eyed doe, a green apple’s sweet tang, a stone in a carp’s mouth. At 4 a.m. I spool off a snake like a snug bracelet and head home. Maybe someone will pay for a kid with good grades.

The mailroom light’s still burnt out, but early headlights flicker across the ceiling. My steps echo down the basement stairs. The gogok’s cheerful thrum reminds me of my sleeping neighbors. It’s almost like company. But the thrum strengthens, rising past the usual rumble to a boneshaking buzz. The dream bursts over me. Sunrise boils the sea. A gold thread curls beneath a rainbow’s arch, swelling to a snake as it nears. A glimpse of horns and bulging eyes, and the gold dragon plunges into my chest, a firehose blast of rippling scales.

This is it: the big score, a dream to rival King Sejong’s. The gogok jitters in my hand. But I’m stronger. I twist it, tear the dream loose, wrestle it into the vial, snap the cap shut.

Stillness. I’m sweating in my jacket, leaning on the rail. Inside I’m all triumph. I got it! This is worth waking my wife. The kitchen light buzzes when I flick it on. Fresh rice steams in the cooker. My wife’s set a clean bowl on the counter for me. Beside it lies a note, and… a white stick?

I pick it up. Two pink lines gaze back. The note says, I didn’t want to worry you until I was sure. Let’s talk? Love you.

Fuck.

My knees wobble. I crumple to the scuffed linoleum. Pregnant. My wife’s pregnant. Where did I think that dream was coming from? It was hers. Ours.

But I can’t give it back. Ten billion won—I’d regret it forever. Every time our ancient Matiz breaks down, every time my mother-in-law goes to the ER. Every time it rains and the street runoff leaks through our windows. Every time the baby cries and old Mr. Kang stomps on the ceiling: I gave up ten billion won for this.

I can’t do that to my kid.

I pull out my phone before I can change my mind. Navigate to my MNet messages. Found it, I swipe. Big shot businessmen get up early, don’t they? I add the details, send those too. Sure enough, three dots appear, and a message. Great. Tonight?

My sweaty fingers slip on unresponsive glass. I rub my hand on my pants, but more dots float up. I’ll add a 10% gratuity.

Another billion, just like that. You’ve got it.

I’ll send a car at 9:30.

It takes me two tries to click off my phone’s display. I can already hear my wife. Selling your own child’s future? You really are a reverse Hong Gildong.

But she’s wrong. I’m securing our child’s future. He’ll have the best future ten billion won can buy. It won’t be rainbows and dragons, but let’s face it, that dream was always meant for a rich man’s son. That’s how it is.

At least there’s one small consolation I can give myself. One thing to stop my child from turning out like me.

The rice dream’s still in my pocket. I pop the cap, feel the gogok’s answering hum. I’m there with my wife when the gourd splits beneath her stubby fingers. Her smile stretches my wet cheeks as she cups her hands. My tears salt the plain rice in her mouth. We’re going to have a little girl, and I’ll make sure she never goes hungry.

She never needs to know who she could have been.

* * *

Ⓒ Jessie Roy