“We’re going to make some noise. It’s best no one is around to hear it.”
I sank up to my knees in the snow, which was surprisingly shallow for this time of the year. Vitali didn’t have this struggle. He handed me both the thermos and a blanket from the backseat, then circled to the trunk.
“Lay that out on the hood,” he called, and I threw the blanket up, calculating just how difficult it would be for me to climb so high up. Could I sit and shoot? Was that a thing?
“Oh God—” I fell back as he came around casually carrying two giant machine guns (or, they seemed giant at the time because I’d never seen one up close).
“It’s okay, Kotik, these aren’t for you. You’ll try one—but I don’t think it will fit in your nightstand.” He pulled two pistols from the breast of his coat and laid everything out on the blanket. “Have you ever heard of an AK-47?”
I had. Mostly from the movies and overhearing teenagers lying to each other on the bus. I was not about to fire one.
“Well, this is an AK-74. It’s better. Much lighter. We’ll save that for after. Just for fun.”
“Fun…” I muttered. “Just for fun…”
“This is a Makarov,” Vitali continued, prompting me to take the pistol. “Small. Like you. Hold it while I set up targets. It’s empty, don’t worry.”
I held it helplessly and watched him carry two wooden planks out into the field. No one looked graceful trying to make their way through deep snow, and Vitali was no exception.
I tried to hide my cheeky grin as he returned. “Shouldn’t they have something drawn on them? Targets?”
“Kotik, you’ll be lucky to hit the plank today. Now, this is how you load it.”
There was a lot of pointing and patience on his part. I did my best to follow along, but somehow doubted I’d be able to do it on my own. When the time came, he moved my hands in place under his, body against mine, and I felt the charge of it even through the layers and layers of our winter clothes.
Palm on the back of the grip—thumb along the frame. His gently moved over mine.
“This is the safety,” he said, voice low and so close to my ear I shivered. But it wasn’t purposeful—when it came to firearms, he was all business. His eyes never lingered on me in the way they usually did, and his touch was purely educational. Somehow, this made me want him more—something about that‘teacher puts his hands on you in public’dynamic that I wanted to explore. Later… couldn’t have those thoughts…
The first time I fired, my heart stopped, but the shot didn’t sound like Elit at all.
It was a boom, just the one. I wasn’t ready for how hard it kicked, but Vitali’s hands were still atop mine and softened the impact. The next time was easier, as was the next and every one after that. I emptied four magazines before he let me stop.
Three bullets actually hit the planks, which, in all fairness, was more than he expected of me.
Then, we sat on the hood and drank coffee, and talked about books I’ve already read, and those slowly making their way into Russia after having been banned. He promised to get me an unabridged copy of Doctor Zhivago that Sergei had stashed away in a box somewhere, possibly in that fabled warehouse.
That’s where my books were now. In boxes. Things we didn’t immediately need were neatly stored back in Mama’s apartment. Books didn’t need the heater to work.
“Can I ask you something?” I kicked my feet and a dirty pieceof ice dislodged from the sole of my boots and crashed against the bumper.
“Go ahead.” He leaned back, propping himself up on his elbows.
“You said you have a sister,” I began. Having heard everything Misha had to say, and pieced together what Sergei added, there was still a lot of… unpleasant mystery surrounding Vitali. But it was a process, and I had no intention of hurrying it along. I had time. We had time. And, I had to be careful, Elena was right about that. “Dasha, right? I didn’t see any pictures of her in your home. Where is she?”
This time, he lay all the way down, an arm comfortably under his head. Every moment of silence was wound, like a spring, but the bite of it never came.
“She’s in America,” he said. “In New York. After our parents passed, she was adopted, and I didn’t know where she’d gone.”
I clumsily scooted my butt (the bottom of my coat had frozen onto the hood) over and crawled up against him. There was no warmth to be found anywhere, but feeling him so near was nice. He hadn’t exactly invited me to cuddle before, but maybe with a meter of coat between us it would be okay. “So you haven’t seen her in a while, then?”
“Not since she was a baby.” He took a deep breath, and it would have been disguised if I hadn’t been lying with my head against his chest. “It wasn’t until three years ago that I got Sergei’s connection to get me an address. I wrote to her adopted parents, saying I was a reporter writing a piece on ‘rescued’ kids. Americans love that—they love to be the heroes. They spoke to me on the phone shortly after. Even asked if there would be an interview on TV. They let me talk to her, but she couldn’t speak Russian, and my English is good enough to speak to adults, notkids.”
“Oh Vitali…”
“It’s alright, Kotik. Such is life. She is far better off there than she could be here.”
“What happened then?”
