Adam
Victor woke to the sound of loud banging. He was too weak to turn his head, to lift his arm and remove the scarf from his eyes.
He heard a crack next to him and a gust of wind buffeted his side. The door must be open.
Steps went past him into Yaroslav’s house.
Victor struggled, begged his aching bones to rise, but they denied him.
He prayed to God and tried to scream, but he couldn’t gather enough air for more than a whisper.
He lay limp as the dead while his chance slipped away.
He wept then, motionless and silent until he fell back into unconsciousness.
Victor woke again for a brief impression—his last, perhaps—of a thumb tucking itself beneath his scarf.
It was cold and stiff, but it wiped the tear beneath his right eye.
More fingers dug beneath his scarf until the freezing hand was able to cup behind his neck.
The last thing Victor felt, before drowning in darkness, was the soft press of a forehead against his own.