Sasha doesn’t want to look. He doesn’t have the guts to see his children in a prison cell, his wife and newborn baby son in a prison cell. But he walks forward anyway. It’s his punishment, isn’t it? Too many sins to count, and they’re all coming due at once.

He looks through the window and lets out a small, anguished noise at the sight of Claire, curled up in a cot with Kip, who sleeps with one protective arm over his kid sister. Their clothes are dirty, their hair is matted. On the floor next to them sleeps Jack, rolled in a blanket. He’s lying on his back, and his mouth wears a strange, lurid grin.

Sasha can’t bear it—he can’t look away—he can’t stand it another second—he can’t move. The pain is like a magnet that holds him in place. Jack’s pale hair—oh God! Claire’s flushed cheeks, the trusting way she snuggles into her brother. How many thousand times has he held his daughter in his arms and kissed her sweet hair?

He tears himself away and leans his head against the cold wall. He never could wear the mask, could he? He never could keep it all inside. Not like this woman.

She stands there next to the wall, arms crossed. She could possibly order him to look inside the next cell, but she doesn’t. She has all the patience in the world. She waits for him to creep there himself, to bring his face near the bars of the window and open his eyes.

But it’s not Iris, after all. It’s Ruth.

She lies on a cot, long and golden, eyes open to the ceiling, arms crossed behind her head. She turns her face and looks at him, without a word, and the expression of her eyes is so deadly that he jerks away.

“Digby?” she calls after him. “Is that you?”

“Yes.”

“How’s Iris?”

“I don’t know,” he gasps, over his shoulder.

Ruth comes to the window. “She’s in the cell next to me. I called out but she didn’t answer. Can you just make sure she’s all right, please?”

He nods and steps to the third door and peers through the window before he can even prepare himself.

Iris.

She’s asleep on a cot, on her back. The baby, wrapped in a swaddle, rests in the crook of her elbow. Her breathing is rapid and shallow; her cheeks are flushed. Her short dark hair tumbles around her face.

How many times has Sasha seen his wife asleep with a newborn baby? Hundreds of times. All the memories dazzle him at once, colorful and brittle, in constant motion like a kaleidoscope. He can’t choose one.