"Are you going to leave me too?"
I open my mouth and close it again because I don't know what to tell him. The truth is that I want to leave. I want to run as far from this house as I can get and I want to call the police and have that man arrested for what he's done.
But the truth is also that Sasha's standing in front of me asking me not to abandon him, and I can't bring myself to lie to his face.
"I'm not going anywhere right now." I smooth his hair back from his forehead and feel the dampness of his sweat against my palm. "Right now, I'm staying here with you and we're going to figure this out together, alright?"
He nods and some of the panic in his expression eases.
"Good." I straighten and glance around the room for the first time since we were brought in here. The space is medium-sized with a queen bed pushed against one wall and a simple wooden dresser across from it. There's a door that I assume leads to a bathroom and blackout curtains covering the window that block out whatever view might exist beyond the glass. The furniture is sparse and functional and there's nothing personal or decorative about any of it. "I need you to do something for me, sweetheart. Can you do that?"
"Yes, ma'am."
I move to the dresser and pull open the top drawer and find it empty except for a few spare linens. The second drawer holds nothing. The third has a small notepad and a pencil tucked into the back corner, and I pull them out and hold them up for Sasha to see. His eyes track the movement but he doesn't speak.
"I want you to draw me a picture." I walk back to him and press the notepad and pencil into his hands. "Can you draw me a picture of yourmamochka? The way you remember her?"
He stares down at the blank page and his fingers tighten around the pencil. "Why?"
"Because I think she'd really cherish having a drawing from you, don't you?"
His face brightens slightly and he nods. I don’t know what that beast of a man has told this boy about his mother, and I don't want to be the one to tell him she's dead. If that’s even true. "She would. She always kept my drawings on the refrigerator at home."
"Then let's make this one special for her." I guide him to the bed and help him sit down with his back against the headboard and his legs stretched out in front of him. "Take your time and make it as detailed as you can. I'm going to look around the room for a minute, but I'm right here if you need me."
He bends over the notepad and starts sketching with slow, careful strokes, and I watch him for a moment to make sure he's settled before I turn toward the door. My legs feel unsteady and my hands shake as I reach for the handle. The metal is cool against my palm, and I twist it slowly and feel my stomach drop when it doesn't turn.
My vision swims slightly as the reality of the situation crashes over me again. I'm locked in this room and the man who kidnapped both of us is somewhere in this house doing whatever it is men who kidnap people do. My breath comes faster, and I press my forehead against the door and close my eyes and try to force myself to think rationally through the panic clawing at my insides.
Why would anyone take Sasha and hand him over to this Gravitch character? If the man truly is his father, then why didn't he know about him until now? Why would the boy's mother keep that information hidden and then suddenly decide to send her son to a stranger? And why would that stranger kidnap a teacher to care for the child instead of hiring a nanny through legal channels?
None of this is okay.
I push away from the door and move to the window and pull back the edge of the blackout curtain. The glass is thick and double-paned and beyond it, I can see the snow-covered yard and the high fence surrounding the property. The distance to the fence looks manageable, but the height of it doesn't, and I can see the sharp points of iron bars running along the top edge. My stomach twists.
"Miss Dragunova?"
I drop the curtain and turn to find Sasha watching me with wide eyes. His pencil hovers over the notepad and he looks uncertain.
"Yes, sweetheart?"
"Are we prisoners?"
The question is so direct and so perceptive that I don't know how to answer it without lying. I cross back to the bed and sit down on the edge near his feet and fold my hands in my lap to keep them from shaking. "I don't know what we are right now. But I know that we're together and we're going to keep each other safe, alright?"
He doesn't look convinced, but he nods and goes back to his drawing.
I sit there and watch him work and try to think of a plan that doesn't involve leaving a frightened child behind. I have no idea where I am or how far I'd have to run before I found help. And what would happen to Sasha if I left him here? Would that man hurt him out of anger? Would he abandon him somewhere?
The questions pile up faster than I can process them, and my throat constricts until I have to focus on breathing in through mynose and out through my mouth in counts of five just to avoid passing out.
Footsteps sound in the hallway outside, and I'm on my feet before I realize I've moved. My pulse pounds in my ears as I position myself between the door and Sasha without thinking about it. The footsteps stop outside the door and there's a pause before a key slides into the lock and the mechanism clicks. The handle turns and the door swings open to reveal the guard who dragged me here standing on the threshold with a tray balanced in his hands.
Steam rises from two covered plates, and I can smell roasted meat and vegetables and bread. My stomach clenches because I haven't eaten since breakfast and that feels like a lifetime ago now.
"Dinner," he says as he steps into the room without waiting for permission. "You should eat."
I don't move and my fingers curl into fists at my sides. The doorway behind him is open and I can see a stretch of hallway and another door farther down, and my legs tense with the urge to run. But Sasha's behind me on the bed and I can't make a move without leaving him vulnerable.
