“Who are you?” I ask the stranger at the door.
“I need to talk to Vyacheslav Osipov.”
I go numb when her husband’s name slips from her lips.
“You need my husband?”
The girl looks at me, widening her big eyes.
“Sorry… I’m very sorry. I would never… never come if I had a choice… But we need help.”
“Help? Who do you need it from?”
From the corner, the girl leads a boy. About nine to ten years old. And it’s not about age. It’s because I see Slava in him. A young, completely boy—there can be no mistake.
“We need help from your husband for my son,” she says, through the veil of noise created by my addled heart.