“Is it the scary men?”

“Yes, but don’t be afraid. I won’t let them hurt you. Never again.” I tested the padlock. It held, and the jiggling of the bolt made me wince.

Across the room, Stanislav shifted and groaned, still in the confines of sleep.

I eased my knife from my dress’s utilitarian pocket, creeping closer and closer. A bottle of hazy fluid rested at his side. Samogon.

The ring of keys dangled on his belt. It would’ve been easy, so incredibly easy, to bury my blade up to the hilt in his neck. It could be over in an instant, and he wouldn’t even wake up. He likely wouldn’t even feel a thing. How was that any different than stalking a deer through the underbrush or snaring a rabbit as it scavenged for spring grass? If anything, it would be a mercy.

Closer. Closer. Six paces away now, my fingers tightened around my knife’s handle.

Underneath the scruff bristling under his chin, I caught sight of the rapid palpitation of his pulse. His heart was beating rabbit-quick. A dream, maybe, or a nightmare.

As I got within four paces of him, my foot struck something smooth and hard. The object gave way in an instant, tipping over and shattering.

I looked down. Milky formaldehyde sluiced over shards of broken glass. The two-headed piglet flopped across the floor, pale and shrunken, like a squashed maggot.

When I looked up again, Stanislav’s eyes were open.

28

For a moment, I froze in absolute stillness, my legs immobile beneath me. It must’ve only been a fragment of a second, but in that time, the world came to a standstill, and all I could do was think about the harsh snap of Dima’s spine giving way, the slap of flesh striking gravel.

Then, as if possessed by something much greater than myself, my body moved on its own. I lunged forward, closing the distance between us even before Stanislav managed to shift the rifle out from its resting position.

He met me head-on. The bayonet blade swooped over my head, carving a path a mere finger’s width from my scalp, close enough that I felt the air part around it.

I dropped down to a crouch, twirling my knife in my hand so that its tip pointed forward, and lunged at him, aiming for the fatty pouch of flesh beneath his jaw. As I brought the blade up, he shifted the barrel and blocked my knife’s ascent. The blade scraped against the iron barrel, sending off a rain of sparks that fizzled out in an instant, but not before briefly illuminating his crazed blue eyes.

“You again,” he growled, fumbling for the rifle’s bolt. The rank odor of samogon muddled his breath. His fingers were slow and clumsy from sleep, or drink, or both. “How did you get here?”

“I killed Dima,” I spat, hoping to throw him off balance. It worked. For a moment he froze, giving me the opportunity to circle around him, searching for an opening. In these close quarters, with the walls insulated behind thick panels of metal that would be prone to ricochet, I doubted he would fire the gun. But if he did, I wanted to be prepared.