The housekeeper.
She's taken to the boy like he's a stray cat she found on the doorstep. Feeding him. Fussing over him. Putting him to work in the gardens because she claims idle hands make troubled minds.
I didn't argue.
"How is your mother?" I ask.
Drake's face transforms.
The wariness melts away. Replaced by something bright. Something hopeful.
"She's good." He nods rapidly. "Real good. The new medication is working. Doctor says her numbers are better than they've been in months."
"Good."
"And the apartment." He shifts his weight. Looks at the ground. Back at me. "She cried when she saw it. Said she never thought she'd live somewhere with a dishwasher."
"She's comfortable?"
"Yes, sir." Another nod. "More than comfortable. She keeps asking what she did to deserve it. I told her—" He stops. Swallows. "I told her God finally noticed us."
God.
The boy thinks God had something to do with this.
"Keep up the good work," I say.
I turn toward the house.
"Mr. Baganov?"
I stop.
"Thank you." His voice cracks on the words. "For everything. The apartment. The job. My mom's treatment. I know I don't deserve?—"
"You don't owe me thanks."
"But I do." He takes a step forward. Stops. Like he's afraid to get too close. "You could have killed me. But you didn't. You gave me a chance."
I look at him.
Seventeen years old. Skinny. Scared. Working in my garden because the alternative was prison or a grave.
He thinks I'm merciful.
He thinks I saved him.
The truth is simpler. Uglier. I needed information, and he had it. I needed someone to watch, and he was convenient. I needed to feel like something other than a monster, and sparing one kid's life was easier than examining why I needed that feeling in the first place.
"Get back to work," I say.
He nods.
Drops back to his knees in the dirt.
I walk away before he can thank me again.
The house is quiet when I enter.
