“My husband will divorce his chicken soon,” says my pregnant roommate in the ward.
I go out to wash a cup and hear the sound of a door opening.
“Sweetie, you’re here!” Lisa shrieks.
“Come on, quickly—I don’t have much time. Are those your things?” answers a low voice with a rasping undertone, and I grab the sink.
“Rustam?” I don’t whisper. I groan.
The cup clatters to the floor and shatters into several large pieces.
“Sofya?” My husband steps toward me. “You…?”
Rustam scorches me with his look; we both watch the hem of my disposable hospital gown.
Because a big red stain is spreading across it.
And I black out.