Once Galina and I reached the homestead, I immediately filled a pot with well water and placed it on the stove in preparation to make herbal tea.

“Toma, what can I do?” Galina asked, tugging at my sleeve to catch my attention. She had followed me to the well and back like a ghost, always a step behind me. “Please, I want to help him.”

Normally, the sleeping nook atop the masonry stove would’ve been the best place for an injured person to rest and recuperate. I knew from experience that the warmth radiating from the masonry could soothe even the worst fever chills. But considering how much trouble I’d had with just dragging him here, I doubted we’d be able to lift Mikhail onto the shelf.

“Can you get extra blankets from the chest?” I asked. “He’s been out in the cold for so long, we need to make sure he’s warm.”

“Warm,” Galina repeated softly, as though it were a spell or a blessing, and then she hurried upstairs. As I listened to the steps creaking beneath her feet, my heart swelled with nervous excitement.

I could count the number of living people I’d seen over the years on the fingers of one hand. Usually, after taking one glance at my family, they ran off screaming. If Mikhail survived, maybe we could become friends. And if he died, perhaps the same strange force that had resurrected my new family would also allow his sentience to remain after his body failed him.

Just as the pot of water started to boil, the door opened, and Mama and Papa dragged Mikhail inside.

I hurried over. “I’ve prepared my bedroom.”

As I followed them into the room, Galina’s fingers plucked anxiously at my skirt. I hadn’t heard her approach, but she could be so silent sometimes, easing across the floorboards like a shadow.

Stopping next to my bed, I untied the ropes from around Mikhail’s body and peeled back the oilcloth. My heart dropped. Against the fabric, he was white and deathly still. As I reached out to see if he was still breathing, he stirred briefly. His sharp face contorted in pain, shadows carving out the hollows in his cheeks as a low groan escaped his lips.

Mama and Papa hauled him onto the mattress. I leaned over the bed and drew back the flaps of Mikhail’s coat. Bloody gemstones spilled from the saturated fabric and scattered on the straw-stuffed mattress.

Stunned, I picked up a couple of the faceted jewels. They were cold and sticky against my palm. Rubies and diamonds, as if his blood itself had hardened into stone. I spotted the source sticking out of his coat’s ripped lining—a pocket of fabric lighter than the rest, torn open and contents scattered.

Placing the gems on the nightstand, I unbuttoned his shirt. My stomach lurched at the devastation beneath—blood coursed from a hole in Mikhail’s shoulder, slickening his entire left side.

Papa examined the wound.

“He’s been shot.” Papa’s voice was low and gravelly through his wooden mask. As he spoke, he twisted the lead ring on his finger around and around, a memento forged from the bullet that had taken him.