ELLIE.
I put the phone face down on the mattress and pull up the covers, keeping my gaze trained on the ceiling.
The house is quiet again. I don’t hear footsteps or doors or Russian voices.
He’s somewhere in this house. I know it because the air changes when he’s inside these walls.
I wonder if he’s thinking about the kitchen too.
I dismiss the thought immediately.
Rolan Belov would not lie in his room on a Sunday nightthinking about his daughter’s tutor. Men like him have bigger problems to worry about. He’s probably in his office, working or doing whatever wealthy businessmen do. He’s not thinking about me. He probably forgot the kitchen happened the moment he left it.
I close my eyes. The book slides off my chest onto the comforter.
I see his arm reaching past me. I feel the heat of his chest behind my back. The way he made me feel smaller.
I press my face into the pillow.
Sleep takes a long time to come.
On Monday, the lessons resume, and I throw myself into work the way drowning people throw themselves at anything that floats.
Anya and I paint, read, and work through a math lesson disguised as a story about Bernard the sparrow and his increasingly complex social life.
Bernard now has friends, which means he has to share seeds, which means fractions, which means Anya is learning to divide without realizing she’s learning to divide, which is my favorite kind of teaching.
By afternoon, she’s speaking non-stop. She tells me about a bird she saw in the garden this morning, and that Mr. Whiskers had a dream about carrots. She tells me she likes the way I read voices because Imake them sound like real people.
Monday is good.
Tuesday morning is good.
Tuesday afternoon is not good.
It starts with a sniffle during our reading session, small and barely noticeable. By two o’clock, the sniffle has become a cough. By three, Anya’s cheeks are flushed, and her eyes areglassy. She’s curled in the armchair with Mr. Whiskers pulled up to her chin, shivering despite the warmth of the sunroom.
I press my hand to her forehead. She’s hot — not burning, but enough to worry.
“Hey, sweetheart. I think you might be getting sick.”
“I’m fine,” she insists.
“I know you’re fine. But your body’s telling me it needs some rest.”
At least I know an excellent doctor.
Hi! The kid I’m taking care of is sick.
I add her symptoms and age, tapping the floor with my feet as I wait for an answer. It takes ninety seconds.
MARE
There’s a virus going around. Give her fluids and let her rest. Children’s Tylenol. If her temperature goes above 102 or persists for more than 48 hours, bring her in.
I cancel the afternoon lesson and wrap her in a blanket, setting her on the couch while I make hot chocolate.
She holds the mug with both hands and watches me over the rim.
