A pause. “And opened another,” he says.
“That’s what I want,” I say. “I need to keep Ana safe.”
He lets out a short whistle through his teeth. “She’s not the center anymore. Marriage changes things. They can’t move her now without paying for it.”
“Gleb, I need to know how they’re seeing this.”
He goes quiet, and when I think he’s done, he says, “Give me two days. I’ll find out what I can.” Then the line clicks.
I stay where I am on the veranda. Gleb didn’t pick up for me. He picked up because this touches him too. Because if the Council moves on us, men on his side of the table start getting called too.
I slip the phone into my pocket and walk back toward the door when it opens. It’s glass, not French in the formal sense, just wide panes set into a wooden frame. Ana steps out with Mila in her arms. Mila’s hair is stuck to her cheek, her body rigid, her head buried against Ana’s neck. She’s holding herself the way she does when she doesn’t want to do what she’s being told.
“How’s the fever?” I ask.
“It’s not there right now,” Ana says. Her voice is careful. “She’s asking for milk.”
“That’s good,” I say. “Give her some.”
Ana doesn’t move. She shifts Mila higher on her hip. “We still have to go back,” she says. “They called.”
I meet Ana’s eyes and hold her gaze. Of course, I remember. The nurse said to return for the panel in the morning. Her tone wasn’t rushed, but it wasn’t calm either. That means it’s not routine. They saw something. They want to be sure. For Mila.
Mila jerks in Ana’s arms and then starts to cry, loud and thin. “I don’t want to go to the hospital,” she says. “I hate it.”
Ana turns her body slightly, rocking her, pressing her cheek to Mila’s hair. “I know,” she murmurs. “I know, baby.”
I step closer so Mila can see my face. “It’s just another small test,” I say. I keep my voice even. “I’ll be there the whole time.”
She looks at me, eyes wet, lashes clumped together. “You’ll be there?” she asks.
“Right through the whole thing,” I say. “I won’t go anywhere.”
She sniffles. I wipe her cheek with my thumb. “You’re a brave girl,” I tell her. “We’ll get some treats after.”
Her crying slows. “And go to the sea?” she asks, hopeful and unsure at the same time.
Ana and I look at each other. It’s a quick glance, loaded, unfinished. We haven’t taken her yet. We’ve been waiting. A trip like that means we stop waiting and act like we’re staying. We weren’t ready.
“Yes,” I say. “When you’re better. I promise.”
We leave within minutes. Ana wraps Mila tightly in her jacket, the hood pulled up even though the rain has stopped. I carry the folder with her papers.
The clinic looks different in daylight, and it feels smaller and harsher. Last night, it was mostly window light and rain on the pavement, but now it’s concrete, glass, and a sign that makes it plain where you are.
I park where I can see both the entrance and the street, an old habit I haven’t dropped. I check the cars and count one delivery van and two private sedans. Nothing stands out. The windows are up, the engines are cold, and everything is parked in line.
Mila goes rigid the moment the doors shut behind us. She clings to Ana’s neck, her fingers digging in. I stay close, near enough to step in if needed, far enough to give her space. Ana signs the form at the desk. Her hand doesn’t shake, but she presses too hard. The pen bites the paper, leaves a dent when she lifts it.
The nurse looks about mid-thirties, hair tied back, shoes that don’t make a sound on the floor. She glances at Mila, then checks the folder in her hand.
“Mila,” she says gently.
Mila turns away, pressing her face into Ana’s neck.
The nurse doesn’t try again. She gives Ana a small, calm smile instead.
“Nurse Polina from the night shift left me everything,” she says. “We’ll keep this quick.”
