Dominik brings the car right up to the door. He gets out with the large umbrella and holds it over us while I buckle her in. Once we’re inside, I slide thin gloves onto her hands so they stay dry.
“Is she still hot?” he asks as he gets behind the wheel, rain running off his coat.
I press my hand to her back. She’s still warm and her breathing is still quick.
He hands me wet wipes from the glove box. I wipe her face, then her palms. I keep my hand on her forehead and count her breaths.
We arrive at the clinic in ten minutes.
Dominik steers me toward a chair near the wall. I sit with Mila on my lap, her head heavy against my shoulder, heat soaking through my shirt. He stays close, not hovering, one step off to the side like any other parent waiting his turn.
He shifts his weight once, scans the room without turning his head. A man looks up from his phone. A nurse pauses at the desk. Someone coughs behind us. Dominik watches everything.
When the nurse calls Mila’s name, she glances at the file again to make sure. Her voice is measured, careful. I answer for Mila, who buries her face deeper into my shoulder. Her breath is still hot and shallow.
We walk down a short hall. The light buzzes faintly overhead and our steps barely echo on the tile. Inside the room is a narrow bed with paper that crinkles, a desk with stacked files, a metal tray with capped syringes and glass vials already labeled. The smell is chemical, faint, but it finds the back of my throat anyway.
Mila whimpers once. I shift her weight higher, grip tighter.
The nurse tells me to lay her down. I look at Dominik and then lay her on the bed. Mila cries. I hold her hand and sit beside her.
The nurse moves through the basics, weight, temperature, and blood pressure. Mila squirms and complains, then calms when Dominik distracts her by asking her to count the stickers on the cabinet. He crouches to her level, his voice gentle, his hand resting lightly on her knee.
I press my thumb against Mila’s knuckles and don’t look at him.
The nurse calls me for the paperwork. I write each line slowly, eyes tracing the letters twice before I hand it back.
She nods and keeps typing. “All right. I’ll need an emergency contact number.”
I hesitate and look at Dominik.
“Put mine down,” he says.
I write his number and slide the paper back across the desk.
“Do you have her early records, Mrs. Sokolova?” the nurse asks. “Newborn profile, screenings, anything from the first clinic visit.”
I stand at her counter, my fingers gripped tightly against the folder that carries all the papers. Newborn profile. My breath catches, and I let it go slowly. I angle myself just enough to keep him from seeing what I’m about to hand over.
“Can you watch her for a minute?” I ask, pulling Mila’s snack from the bag and passing it to him. “I need to fill these out.”
He nods and crouches beside her, pointing at the wall with the cartoon animals, keeping her busy.
I open the folder. Birth documents. Her vaccine card. The test profile from Arkhangelsk. I check the dates, the seals, my own handwriting. I smooth the corners with my thumb and slide them across the desk to the nurse. She takes them without hesitation.
I fold my hands to keep them steady and keep my face calm. Dominik doesn’t notice, and I don’t plan on letting him.
The doctor comes in next. He’s in his forties, hair thinning at the crown, glasses clean, hands tidy. He steps into the room with an easy walk, greets Mila first, then me, then Dominik. His eyes reston Dominik a touch longer than politeness requires, then move on without comment.
He listens to Mila’s chest, checks her throat, presses gently along her belly. She complains a little. He smiles and tells her she’s brave. She straightens her back a bit at that, proud.
“How long has she had a fever?” he asks, already writing before she answers.
“She was cranky yesterday, refusing food,” I say. “This evening, I felt her body warm after dinner. It spiked fast.”
“Any recent travel?”
“Yes,” I answer. “From the north.”
