Save My Son

“What do you want?” “You’ll work for me.” “Will you demand me to give you a son again?! Or are you just eager to massage the back?” Without saying anything, Zakhar went to the house. Then the house doors opened. “An heir isn’t needed for me,” Zakhar said. “I already have one.” And you’ll be stroking not me. The boy who stepped out of the house looked exactly like Zakhar—like two drops of water. He was about the same age as my daughter, but seemed older. Maybe because he didn’t smile and looked like a wolf; or maybe because of the walkers he leaned on. “This is Ignat,” Zakhar said when the boy reached us. “You have to put my son on his feet.” “You could have hired any masseuse,” I managed to answer. “You could. But I wanted you.”