Dominik leans forward, elbows on knees, voice flat. “You think I forgot how to watch my back?”
“Do you?” I turn to look at him. “There was a dark sedan earlier,” I say, keeping my voice even. “It turned around twice.”
He nods once. “I saw it.”
“You’re not going to tell me what that means.”
“It means someone is watching,” he says. “Not striking.”
“That’s supposed to make me feel better?”
“It should make you alert,” he replies. “If they wanted us gone, we wouldn’t be eating dinner.”
He reaches for the remote. I listen for tires outside.
The next day, the car isn’t parked in the same place, but a delivery truck pulls up in the afternoon. The man holds a clipboard and says my name wrong. He says it again, slower, watching my face. There’s a package I didn’t order, addressed close enough to make the point. Dominik takes it from him without stepping fully into view and closes the door before the man can say anything else.
“Wrong delivery,” he says. “It happens all the time.”
“Is it?” I ask. I tell him it’s too early to let go.
“Someone wanted to see who answers the door,” I say. “And how fast.”
He doesn’t look at me, just stands there, thumb pressed against the folded corner of the package. He places it on the table without opening it.
He checks the lock, then checks it again. Draws the curtain halfway, pauses, then draws it the rest of the way. He doesn’t ask what I want for dinner. Doesn’t remind Mila to wash her hands before eating.
When I reach for the kettle, I hear the second bolt slide in.
After that, we don’t talk about it, but the house changes. He sleeps lightly. I wake in the night and find him sitting up, head tilted, listening. His hand rests near the edge of the bed, ready to move. Before sunrise, he checks the doors. He checks them again before Mila wakes.
With her, he stays close. At the park, he keeps a hand near her back when she climbs. He counts the steps out loud when she runs ahead. He tells her to stay where he can see her. She does.
I don’t like how little effort it takes now.
The month draws to its end when rain rolls in from the sea and drums against the roof and windows. After dinner, Mila curls up with me on the couch. Her skin feels warm through her shirt. I tell myself she’s tired, that travel and new places make children rundown.
When I lay her down, her breathing is shallow and fast. She stirs and whimpers, her forehead damp under my hand.
Dominik is on the couch, watching something with the volume kept soft so it won’t wake her. I walk over, stand in front of him.
“She’s warm,” I say.
Dominik is beside the bed in an instant. He presses his hand to her neck, then her wrist, steady and sure.
We give her water, wipe her face, and tell ourselves it will pass. The rain keeps tapping at the windows like a clock no one resets.
An hour later, Mila cries out, sudden and high, and when I lift her, she feels heavy against me. Her skin burns where my hand touches it. The thermometer doesn’t lie.
I look at Dominik. “We have to take her to a doctor,” I say.
“I know,” he says. He’s already reaching for the keys.
19
ANA
Ilayer Mila without making her bulky and move fast while I do it. She’s cranky. I grab the sweater with buttons so nothing has to go over her head. The jacket follows. I get the leggings and socks on and work her boots into place one foot at a time. She leans into me, eyes half closed, while I wrap the poncho around her and snap it shut.
