He sometimes felt a shadow over his right shoulder. Someone would come creeping up suddenly and do awful things; they’d throw a bag over his head and start working him over. He could feel it in every sinew of his body. He felt the punches, hooks to the chin, kicks in the stomach, in the head, he lay on the ground, couldn’t breathe anymore, his nose swollen, blood in his throat, the pain so bad he was losing his mind, and yet he didn’t lose consciousness; that relief still wouldn’t come. Every image of violence he had ever seen in his life came flooding back to him, things he’d seen in movies and at night, on dark side streets. The images assailed him.

Lauren sometimes shook him gently as he slept. “You were screaming.”

He hadn’t heard anything from Carl since the war began.

He had started dreaming of his father from time to time. His father going off to war. One minute he’s standing there and looking different than usual: in uniform, ready to become someone else. A vise on his heart. It’s uncomfortable for him how his father tries to say goodbye and doesn’t know how—a clap on the shoulder, that’s all. A few days later his father is dead. Shot in France. They’re moving with a cart to the next rundown flat, his mother, Carl, and him.

The father who beat him and Carl once a week. He didn’t miss his father. He was happy he wasn’t around anymore. But Carl cried a lot. Carl was just nine, after all. While he, at eleven, suddenly felt like he’d grown up in the span of a day. And really, not much had changed since then.

She got out of bed and went looking for the blow-dryer. Spent many long minutes blowing warm air on her legs, stomach, and face and made quite a lot of noise. She’d said at one point that the hot air helped her relax. Sometimes she even brought her blow-dryer with her to his place.

“You’re a spoiled rich girl,” he shouted over the noise.

“Let’s go to Coney Island,” she shouted back. “The weather’s beautiful.”

A sky of azure blue—a perfect sky. The sun shining low, touching everything with devotion, and drawing out the colors that lay hidden within.

They took the train to Brighton Beach, from there they would walk along the beach to the heart of Coney Island. To the left and right, under the copper-green elevated train tracks, were shops selling Russian goods—caviar, sweets, furs. Lauren looked at the displays with interest.

“So have they still not tried to contact you?” she asked, looking at a white fur coat. But it was his face she was looking at, reflected in the windowpane.

“I would tell you right away.”

“Yes, you would.”