Page 125 of Sexting the Pakhan

I look at my daughter’s face, at the tear tracks on her cheeks, at the glitter stuck near her eyebrow. She’s waiting for me to explain the world in a way that fits inside a five-year-old heart.

“He’s dangerous,” I say.

Mila looks at Ruslan again. “But he’s hurt.”

“Yes,” I say. “He is.”

To Mila, that settles everything. She pulls back just enough to look me straight in the eye, her little chin wobbling. “Mama, we help hurt people.”

I feel it in my chest. Every lesson I ever tried to teach her has chosen the worst possible moment to come back to me.

I look at Ruslan. He’s watching Mila now, not me. His face is pale, sweat at his temple, blood dark around his thigh where his hand presses hard against the wound. He has seen violence I can’t imagine. Caused some of it too. Yet the way he looks at my daughter is strangely still, as if she has asked something he doesn’t know how to refuse.

“Mila,” Ruslan says quietly, “your mother is right. You should leave.”

Mila frowns. “You shouldn’t talk when you’re bleeding.”

For one absurd second, even with everything happening, Ruslan chuckles. He tries to hide the surprise in his eyes, but I see it. I can tell he’s not used to being scolded by kindergarteners.

“She gets that from me,” I say before I can stop myself.

His eyes move to mine.

There’s too much in that look. Too much history. Too much pain. Too much he doesn’t yet understand, and too much I am terrified he might.

I set Mila down but keep one arm around her shoulders. “Can you walk?” I ask him.

Ruslan’s jaw flexes. “Yes.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

His mouth twists faintly.

I look at his leg. I can see splotches of blood, but not pouring the way it would if the wound were higher or deeper. I know almost nothing about bullet wounds, which feels wildly inconvenient. I know library systems, overdue notices, children’s fevers, lunch boxes, rent math, and how to remove glitter from sofa fabric with tape. None of that helps with a mafia boss bleeding under a shelf of stuffed animals.

I grab one of the small blankets from the bin and kneel beside him.

Ruslan stiffens when I move close.

“Relax,” I say.

He looks at me. “That is not a useful instruction.”

“Neither is ‘leave,’ but you kept saying it.”

Mila kneels beside me and holds out the edge of the blanket with solemn concentration.

“Mila,” I say, “stay behind me.”

“But I’m helping,” she says.

“You can help by watching the door.”

She looks toward the door, then back at me. “What if someone comes?”

“You tell me.”

She nods, suddenly serious. “Okay.”