“I promise.”
“Pinky promise?”
I hook my little finger around hers. “Pinky promise.”
She drifts back into restless sleep, and I sit there holding her hand, watching the rise and fall of her chest beneath the dinosaur sheets.
Around 8 a.m., her fever spikes again. I change out the cool cloth on her forehead and check her temperature. 39.8. Higher, but still manageable. The medicine should kick in soon.
She stirs and blinks up at me with glassy eyes. “Pyotr?”
“I’m here.”
“Will you tell me a story? Mama always tells stories when I’m sick.”
“I’m not very good at stories.”
“Please?” She tugs weakly on my sleeve. “Tell me about when you were little. Did you have a dog? I want a dog, but Mama says maybe when I’m bigger.”
After a few minutes, I find myself talking about Uncle Vasily’s hunting dogs and the summers in the village. Kira listens with heavy-lidded eyes, occasionally asking questions that don’t quite make sense through her fever fog.
“Did the dogs have names?” she asks.
“Hunter and Misha.”
“Those are funny names for dogs,” she says with a giggle. “I would name my dog Princess Sparkle.”
“That’s a terrible name for a dog.”
“It’s the best name.” She yawns and snuggles deeper into her pillow. “When I get better, will you help me convince Mama?”
“We’ll see.”
She’s quiet for a moment. Then, so softly I almost miss it, she whispers, “I wish you were my papa.”
The words punch through me like a bullet.
“Kira…”
But she’s already asleep, with her breathing evening out and her hold on my hand going slack.
I sit there frozen as what she said settles over me. This isn’t my daughter, or even my family. I’m here on assignment, and in a few days, this will be over one way or another.
But Kira feels like mine. They both do.
Her fever finally breaks. I check her temperature and find it down to 37.5. Close enough to normal. The color is returning to her cheeks, and her sleep has shifted from restless to peaceful.
I extract myself carefully and leave Kira sleeping. The fire escape door creaks as I slip outside, and the cold air slaps my face.
I grab the railing and stare out at the city.
I don’t hear Daria approach until she’s beside me, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders.
“Her fever broke,” I tell her without turning around.
“I know. I checked on her.” She cocks her head and asks, “What’s wrong?”
I don’t know how to explain the weight pressing down on my chest, or the memories clawing their way up from the grave I dug for them.
