17. Zoya #4
Mila is still beside Ruslan’s chair, clutching her bent paper crown against her chest. Her eyes keep moving to his injured leg and then back to his face, like she’s trying to decide whether he’s allowed to be scary when he’s also bleeding.
“Is he going to die?” Mila asks.
“No,” I say at once.
Ruslan says, “No.”
Karina says, “Not in my evening schedule.”
Mila nods slowly, reassured by the fact that all three adults have agreed for once.
I kneel in front of Ruslan and cut away the soaked makeshift bandage. The wound is high on his thigh, ugly and bleeding, but not as bad as it looked in the kindergarten. At least that is what I tell myself so I don’t start shaking again.
“You need a doctor,” I say.
Ruslan watches my hands. “I know.”
“Then why are you in my kitchen?”
His eyes lift to mine. “Because you brought me here.”
That makes me angrier than it should. But I don’t say anything. This isn’t the time to be petty to an injured man.
“That was Mila’s moral decision,” I say.
Mila straightens. “We help hurt people.”
Ruslan looks at her, and something in his expression shifts so quietly I almost miss it. “Yes,” he says. “You do.”
I press a clean towel to his leg. He inhales sharply but does not move.
“Sorry,” I say.
“Don’t be,” Ruslan says.
“I wasn’t that sorry,” I say.
Karina makes a strangled sound near the counter. “God, I missed and hated this tone.”
I look up at her. “What?”
“Nothing,” Karina says quickly. “Absolutely nothing. I’m simply having a normal reaction to a normal evening.”
Nadia steps closer, still pale but curious despite herself. “Why do you know him?”
The kitchen goes quiet. Ruslan doesn’t answer. Karina suddenly becomes fascinated by the first aid box.
I keep pressure on the wound and choose my words carefully. “I knew him before you were born.”
Mila looks interested. “When you were young?”
Karina mutters, “You’re still young.”
I ignore her. “Yes,” I tell Mila. “When I was younger.”
Nadia studies Ruslan. “Were you Mama’s friend?”
Ruslan’s gaze moves to me.
I don’t look away.
“No,” I say. “Not exactly.”
Mila frowns. “Then what was he?”
“A complicated person,” I say.
Karina snorts. “That’s one way to phrase it.”
“Karina,” I warn.
“What?” she says. “I am being heroic with my restraint.”
Nadia looks at Ruslan again. “Are you still complicated?”
Ruslan’s mouth moves slightly. “Yes.”
Mila nods as if this makes sense to her. “I’m complicated sometimes too.”
“You are five,” Nadia says.
Mila says, “That doesn’t mean simple.”
Despite everything, Ruslan almost smiles.
I look back at his leg and press harder than necessary. He hisses.
“Sorry,” I say again. This time, I mean it less.
Karina moves to the sink and washes her hands. “What do we do now?”
“We stop the bleeding,” I say. “Then we figure out how to get him medical help without turning my apartment into a crime scene.”
Ruslan says, “I can call someone.”
I look up immediately. “No.”
His eyes narrow. “No?”
“No mafia doctor. No armed men. No one coming to my building.”
“Zoya—”
“My children live here,” I say.
That shuts him up.
Good.
I keep my hands steady because if I let them tremble, I might not stop. “Karina, call Dr. Mehra.”
Karina blinks. “Your pediatrician?”
“She does home visits. She also treated your brother when he sliced his hand open making those terrible shelves.”
Karina says, “They were rustic.”
“They were unsafe.”
Ruslan says, “A pediatrician is not treating a bullet wound.”
I look at him. “A pediatrician is a doctor, and right now you are sitting in my kitchen bleeding on a towel with cartoon ducks on it, so maybe lower your standards.”
Mila looks down at the towel. “That’s my bath towel.”
Ruslan says, “I apologize.”
Mila considers him. “It’s okay. You needed it.”
Nadia says, “Blood may not come out.”
Ruslan says, “I’ll replace it.”
“No,” I say sharply.
Everyone looks at me.
I force myself to breathe. “No gifts. No money. No replacing things. Just sit there and bleed less.”
Ruslan’s face closes a little.
I hate that I notice.
Karina quietly takes out her phone and moves toward the hallway. “I’m calling Dr. Mehra.”
The girls stay near me as I work, both of them too quiet now. The adrenaline is wearing off, and what’s left underneath is fear. Mila leans against my shoulder. Nadia stands with one hand on my back.
I want them in bed. I want them safe. I want tonight to rewind to cupcakes and paper crowns and Nadia correcting Mila’s singing.
Instead, Ruslan is in my kitchen. Blood is on my floor. The past is sitting in a chair, watching my daughters like he’s afraid to blink.
I wrap the bandage tighter around his thigh. Ruslan’s hand grips the edge of the table.
“Too tight?” I ask.
“No.”
“Good,” I say.
His eyes stay on my face.
I feel the weight of everything he is not saying.
I feel Karina’s silence from the hallway.
I feel the unknown number burning in my bag, still unanswered, still impossible.
But I don’t ask. Not now.
Now there are two little girls in my kitchen who need me to keep my voice calm.
So I tape the bandage down, wipe my bloody hands on a towel I will probably throw away, and say the only thing I can manage.
“Nobody talks about anything important until my daughters are asleep.”