She left and he opened the bag. The food proved to be meat wrapped in soft pastry. It was like lamb, but much stronger. He guessed it was mutton. He didn’t care. It was delicious. He left one of the pastries for Baba Yaga assuming she ever recovered enough to eat, and hit the shower.

The tile was cracked underfoot and the wallpaper in one corner of the bathroom had pulled loose to reveal mold growing beneath it. The hot water eased the tension in his back and shoulders, but stung both bullet wounds. The purloined dress shoes had rubbed blisters on both his heels so that was another source of pain.

The bandage on his side was filthy. He gritted his teeth and ripped it off, figuring no covering was better than risking infection. The wound was gaping open where the stitches had ripped loose. Franny dabbed the strong-smelling ointment onto his bullet wounds, gasped at the pain, and stuck on clean bandages. He then wrapped a tissue-thin towel around his waist and stood over the stained sink to shave. It felt good to scrape away three days of beard.

Slipping back into the bedroom he paused at Baba Yaga’s side. Her breathing was labored but at least he had her breathing again.

He lifted her arm to check her pulse and she woke. She stared up at him, her eyes cloudy. She seemed scared as well as confused. “Tolenka?” she whispered.

“No, Frank. Would you like to eat something? It’s a bit cold, but—” She shook her head and moaned.

Her lips were dry and cracked and she ran her tongue constantly across them. He went into the bathroom and filled a plastic cup with water. He held her while she took a few small sips. It seemed to revive her somewhat. She seemed to actually see him.

“You shaved,” she said faintly.

He rubbed a hand across his chin. “Yeah.” He suddenly realized he was still wearing just a towel. The old woman seemed to read his thoughts, and gave him that grim smile, though it seemed more like a grimace. “You’re not hard to look at, boy.”

“Thanks, I guess. Do you want to try and eat?”

She shook her head. “Too sick. Like fire in the veins.” Her voice was threadlike, fading. He barely heard her add, “Maybe better … to die … now. Not wait … for…” She slid once more into unconsciousness.