20. Dominik
DOMINIK
I’m outside on the narrow back veranda. Most houses here have one, a half-covered strip where people leave boots to dry and sit with tea when the sun shows up.
I call Gleb from an unknown number and let it ring twice while I count all the reasons he shouldn’t answer.
Unknown line. Bad timing. My name tied to trouble.
He answers anyway.
“You’re late,” he says. No hello. No question about the number.
“I had to move,” I say.
“I figured,” he says. “You don’t call from a number like this unless where you are still feels wrong.”
I look out over the backyard from the veranda. The grass is damp from last night’s rain. A clothesline runs slack between two posts. Nothing moves. The trees stand still, windless, dampness pressed flat against the ground.
“I’m married,” I tell him.
Gleb says nothing for a beat. Then he speaks, voice even.
“So you did it.”
“You knew,” I say.
“Yeah,” he says. “It hit the records. Stuff like that never stays private.”
“But I didn’t know it was you,” he adds.
I say nothing.
“The name on file isn’t yours,” he says after a while.
“It’s one I use.”
He exhales through his nose, the sound faint. “You’ve got nerve.”
“Are you saying I crossed a line?”
“I’m saying I know who the Council’s been watching now, and I didn’t before.” He lets that sit. “They’ll know soon enough.”
“I closed one door,” I say.
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.”
She asks for the file and prescription, double-checks the tests, then turns to the screen and types with quick, practiced fingers. She moves through the steps without fuss. Temperature first, normal now. She notes it down. Then the blood pressure cuff, the oxygen clip, the scale, the height chart.
Mila stiffens at each one. Her eyes dart around the room, looking for a way out.
“It’s all right,” Ana keeps saying, soft and steady, though her voice shakes once before she gets it back.
The nurse finishes the vitals and brings over the tray with needles and vials. She doesn’t pause. She lines up the vials, checks the label, and meets Mila’s eyes for a second, calm and direct
“This’ll be over before you even feel it,” she says with a small smile.
Mila nods, and I stay where she can see me. When they tie the band around her arm, she gasps. She looks at me with wide, wet eyes like I lied to her. I shake my head once, slow and steady. She turns and presses her face into Ana’s chest.
The nurse washes her hand at the sink, dries it fast, then snaps on her gloves. She tells Mila what’s coming in a voice meant for a child. Just a pinch. One small tube. Maybe two. That’s all.
Mila starts crying before the needle even comes close.
Ana shifts, holding her tighter, her mouth near Mila’s ear, whispering something only meant for her. Her body curves around Mila’s like she’s trying to absorb the pain for her.
I step in and cover Mila’s fist with my hand.
“Here,” I say. “Squeeze if it hurts.”
She does. Hard.
The needle goes in. Mila screams. Ana’s eyes close. The nurse does not hesitate. She fills a tube, then another.
It’s over faster than Mila believes. The nurse tapes the cotton in place and hands Mila a sticker. A fish. Mila sobs into Ana’s shoulder, worn out and red-faced, but she’s okay.
“All done,” the nurse says. She’s already cleaning up.
I watch her hands. I watch the door. I watch the reflection in the metal cabinet. Everything stays where it is. Mila lets out a soft sound, half breath, half relief.
“It’s done?” she says, like she needs to hear it out loud.
“Yes, baby,” Ana murmurs as she gathers her close, smoothing her hair, breathing something hushed against her ear.
The nurse talks to me. “The report will take some time. We’ll call you when it’s ready,” she says. And just like that, it’s done. We gather our things and walk back through the hall, out to the parking lot, the door closing behind us.
Mila is quiet now, spent, her head heavy on Ana’s shoulder.
Ana sets her in the car seat and fastens the belt. I crouch in front of her and tell her it’s done for today. No more needles. No more hospital rooms. Her eyes search my face, then Ana’s. When we both nod, she lets out a long breath like she’s been holding it in for hours.
“Can we go somewhere nice?” she asks, her voice careful.
“There’s a bookshop two streets over,” I say. “You can pick anything you want.”
That does it. The fear falls out of her all at once. She straightens, wipes her face on her sleeve, and starts talking about colors before we’ve even reached the door.
The bookshop is small and warm, with shelves packed tight and little bells that ring when we walk in. Mila lets go of Ana’s hand and wanders between the rows. She crouches to reach a lower shelf, then stands again and presses a book to her chest. Her mouth moves as she reads the title to herself.
She chooses a book with a boy riding a dolphin in the sea. “Can I have this?”
“Yes,” we say together.
She pulls out stacks of coloring pads, thick crayons that won’t break the first time she presses too hard.
She looks back at us, eyes bright. “Can I get this one too?”
Ana nods. “Yes.”
I pick up a tin sword from a rack near the counter, the kind made for children, light and dull-edged. I hand it to Mila without a word. Ana lifts her eyes to me.
“What?” she says, smiling.
“She’s been brave,” I say.
Mila swishes the sword through the air, serious now. “I’ll cut all the bad people,” she announces, pointing it toward the ceiling. “The ones who’ll hurt my mommy.”
A couple near the travel guides smiles. Mila turns and points the sword at me. “And you.”
I raise my hands. “Fair enough.”
She grins and tucks the sword under her arm like it belongs there.
At the counter, the owner wraps the books carefully, adds a small sticker sheet without charging for it, and tells Mila to come back soon. We buy honey candies shaped like bears, a small bag of dried fruit, and a bar of dark chocolate Ana likes.
Back home, Mila doesn’t even take her shoes off properly. She drops onto the rug, opens the coloring book, lines up the crayons by size. The sword is on the floor beside her. Ana checks her temperature and nods.