“I’ve never been to Moscow.” Kira swirls her spoon through her soup. “Mama says maybe someday we can go see the dinosaurs at the museum there.”
“Maybe someday,” I echo, though we both know someday never seems to arrive.
After dinner, I put Kira to bed with her usual routine. Two lullabies tonight because she insists. I sing them both, kiss her forehead, and tell her I love her more than all the stars in the sky.
“I love you more than all the dinosaurs,” she replies, her highest form of devotion.
I close her door and stand in the hallway for a moment, gathering myself.
When I return to the living room, Pyotr is checking the locks on the front door. He tests the deadbolt twice, then moves to the window and examines the latch. He’s already done this once tonight. This makes round two, and I know a third will follow before he sleeps.
I watch him from the hallway as something clicks into place in my mind.
“You do that a lot,” I comment.
He doesn’t startle. He probably heard me coming. “Do what?”
“Check the locks and the windows.”
He straightens and turns to face me. “Old habits.”
“From the military?”
“From life.”
I understand that answer better than he probably realizes. I have my own rituals and compulsive behaviors designed to create the illusion of safety.
I check that Kira’s window is locked every night before I go to sleep, I keep a knife in my nightstand drawer, and I know how many steps it takes to get from my bedroom to hers. I’ve practiced the route in the dark until I can do it blindfolded.
We’re the same, I realize. Both of us are performing desperate little rituals to feel safe in a world that keeps proving safety is an illusion.
“It doesn’t help,” I tell him. “The checking. I used to think that if I locked everything tightly enough, nothing bad could get in. But bad things always find a way.”
“You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”
I don’t answer. I’ve already said too much.
“The man at the grocery store,” he starts. “He wasn’t just someone you used to know.”
“I told you to drop it.”
“I can’t help you if I don’t know what I’m dealing with, Daria.”
“I never asked for your help.”
“Everyone needs help sometimes.”
“Not from people who are here to decide if I live or die.”
The words come out harsher than I intended. I see something flash in his eyes. Hurt, or resignation. The look of a man who’s used to being seen as a monster.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “That was?—”
“True,” he finishes. “It was true. People like me aren’t usually in the business of helping.”
“Then why did you step in today? At the store?”
For a moment, he stands silently by the window with the winter night pressing against the glass behind him.
