Movement shifted in the corner of my eye. I turned just as Dima lumbered onto his hands and knees.

Teeth bared in a bloodied snarl, he drew the pistol from the holster at his waist. As he cocked back the hammer, Vanya stomped his foot down. The tender sprigs of new branches erupted from the floorboards, twisting into a bough that slammed into Dima’s chest, casting him through the train car’s open door and into the void beyond. If he made a sound, it was lost beneath the crunch of his body striking earth.

I stared out the open door, watching the trees pass by. I thought I should feel something. Relief, happiness even. But all I could think was how I wished I’d been the one to kill him, and as I turned back to the others, an acidic anger scalded the back of my throat. My body trembled with rage that swelled from within like a dark tide, rage so violent it shocked me. I wanted to push Dima out myself. I wanted to rip at my own hair. I should have heard him coming. I should have done something.

“You know, I think I’m beginning to get the hang of this bogatyr thing,” Vanya said, retrieving the pistol Dima had dropped. But even though he kept his voice lighthearted, his hand was trembling, and the words stumbled over his lips. He turned away from us, but not before I watched him grasp his right hand and dig his nails into his own wrist, clenching down until the skin blanched even paler still, and the trembling subsided.

“Great job, except now they’ll know a bogatyr is here,” Mikhail said dryly, eying the exposed branches.

“Oh, so I’m not a koldun anymore?” From the outer pocket of his rucksack, Vanya retrieved the serrated blade he’d used to build our campfire spit. With a few hard jerks, he sawed the new bough through at its base and hurled it through the open door. “There.”

“Thank you,” I said, taking a shallow breath. I buried the anger deep down, digging my nails into my palms to center myself. “Both of you. I don’t know what would’ve happened if you hadn’t shown up.”

“What are friends for, eh?” Vanya nudged Mikhail in the shoulder.

“Here,” Mikhail said, handing me my mother’s rushnyk.

I folded it over my arm, fingering one fraying edge. Just the tapestry’s familiar weight and feel calmed me.

“We better get moving,” Mikhail said as Vanya closed the train door and latched it shut. “Help me look. There have to be some uniforms on one of these shelves.”

Next to the folded bedsheets, we unearthed a steel washboard and a wicker basket containing a mishmash of uniform parts, the clothes still damp from the laundry. The boys found suitable matches within moments, but after trying on several shirts that fit like tents, I decided on a medic’s uniform.

Along with the utilitarian gray dress that reached just past the knees, the uniform also came with a short sage-green cape and a belt containing multiple rings for tools and bags. We changed with our backs to each other, and though I despised getting rid of my familiar clothes, which I’d mended and embroidered myself, the nurse’s uniform felt good against my skin, the cloth still crisp. It smelled better, too.