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I barely sleep. By morning, I need structure. So, I divide the day into tasks.

I check Misha’s temperature, answer messages from the hospital, and ask Irina about Alexei’s dressing without looking toward his office. In the kitchenette, Lidiya tells me I can choose Misha’s breakfast, so I make him warm mannaya kasha with butter and sliced berries.

Misha climbs onto a chair and helps me cut a banana with a blunt table knife. He notices the plants on the kitchen counter and points at their leaves.

“They’re drooping.”

“We should give them some water.”

He carries a small glass to the counter and pours enough into one pot to last the whole week. Water spills over the edge and runs across the tray. I wipe it up while he pats the damp soil with one finger, wondering how much a plant can endure before too much care begins to damage its roots.

Later that morning, Oksana brings Misha into the sitting area with one shoe missing and jam on his sleeve.

“He refused the second shoe,” she says, holding it up.

“It was tired,” Misha explains, parking his yellow car beneath the coffee table.

Around noon, Lidiya arrives with warm milk and toast strips while I sit beside Misha, trying to read a surgical update on a patient recovering from abdominal trauma.

“Shoes feel better after milk and toast,” she tells him as she sets down the tray.

I read the same paragraph three times before closing the file.

When Misha takes an unexpected nap, I open the hospital records and begin checking the cases linked to Belov’s network. Two trauma files contain false transfer numbers, and one pharmacy order carries the signature of a nurse who retired last year. I compare dates, mark names, and send my questions to Kira. I trust her, and she won’t complain if I send her a list without explaining why I need the answers.

Each time I stop working, Alexei’s voice returns.

Misha is my son.

Alexei stops at the playroom entrance that evening. Misha is sitting on the rug with a book spread across his knees.

“Can I read that with you?” Alexei asks, one hand resting against the doorframe.

I answer before Misha can. “Not today.”

Alexei looks at me for a moment, then nods. “All right.”

He leaves without arguing. For the next few hours, I listen for his footsteps and hear none.

I wanted him to keep his distance, yet I keep looking toward the door. He wants the three years he missed, but when I tell him no, he walks away without trying to overrule me. I can’t accuse him of taking control when he keeps giving each choice back to me, and I can’t forget what happens when we’re alone. My body remembers his hands, his mouth, and the way he makes love to me.

Misha finds the drawing on my desk. Alexei has returned it without a note.

“The serious man gave it back.” Misha smooths the crease with both hands.

“I see that.”

“Is he sad?” He tilts his head.

I glance toward Alexei’s closed office door. “I don’t know.”

“He makes sad faces here.” Misha presses one finger between his eyebrows.

I kiss the spot and carry him to bed.

Near midnight, after Oksana settles beside Misha and the west corridor goes quiet, I find a sheet of paper beneath my phone.

No security decision concerning Misha will be made without your approval.