“Oh my god,” I said, and I leaned back in my chair. I looked at Yaga on my hand and she nodded, as if to say, Yep—we’re the same thing.

And, so, after that, I painted. I painted for, I think, eight hours, until I could hear people arriving at the factory for the day. I painted with Yaga on my hand instead of in front of me. Inside her body, my hand became her soul, her person, her character. It felt good. Us fused together, us being a part of each other. What was left of the duck blood, I imagined coursing around my own body and feeding into hers.

Now, I prop the painting up. It is a dark, mad mess of an image; I can’t quite comprehend it. In the middle, Baba Yaga’s face seems to disappear into a deep hole. A strong wind seems to whip up her hair and surround her head with it. Next to Sher-Gil’s Three Girls and Bing’s Velasquez Family, she doesn’t look too out of place anymore. She looks balanced, if chaotic; human, monster, puppet.

I lie down on the studio floor. Yesterday, I bought a yoga mat to sleep on. It’s a bit too small. I’ve rolled up my clock sweatshirt so that it’s like a little pillow. I lie under the jacket I bought. There, with Yaga still on my hand, I google Nina Efimova, her maker, and the word “puppet” and search under the News tab. I add “the OTA” to my search terms too, but nothing comes back. My Yaga hasn’t been reported missing yet, and maybe she won’t be. She was, after all, just left, inanimate and comatose, in the corner of the puppet theater, tucked away, covered in dust, out of sight. Either way, if anyone does notice her absence, so many interns have been put in the puppet booth that there’d be too many suspects to narrow the search down, and nothing—apart from my painting, which I’ll have to not show anyone and keep secret—connecting her to me.

Later, I’m walking along the river in the direction of the Otter, and I get a text from Ben: “Hey, I’m really sorry about last night if I did or said anything. Can we talk later? Im in all day. Can come down to you. Ima go out now but back later tonight. Lmk.”

He sends another text straightaway. “I mean sorry if I said anything bad or embarrassing.” And then another: “Like, I realize that I probably almost def did.” And another: “Hope you’re good today.” And then one more: “It was good seeing you yesterday.” The texts come up as successive banners at the top of my screen. I turn my music off and reply.