Page 135 of Sexting the Pakhan

But I don’t ask. Not now.

Now there are two little girls in my kitchen who need me to keep my voice calm.

So I tape the bandage down, wipe my bloody hands on a towel I will probably throw away, and say the only thing I can manage.

“Nobody talks about anything important until my daughters are asleep.”

18

ZOYA

By the timeMila and Nadia fall asleep, I feel like I’ve aged ten years.

They ask too many questions.

Mila wants to know if the man in the kitchen is going to die. Nadia wants to know if the police will come. Mila asks if bullets always make so much blood. Nadia tells her not to ask that because “Mama looks unwell.”

I sit between their beds and keep my voice calm because they need calm from me, even if I have none left. “He is not going to die,” I tell Mila.

Mila clutches her ruined paper crown against her chest. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure enough.”

Nadia watches me from under her blanket. “That’s not the same as sure.”

“No,” I say. “But it is bedtime.”

Mila sniffles. “He was nice.”

I pause.

Ruslan Karelin has been called many things. Nice is probably not one of them.

“He was hurt,” I say carefully.

“He told me he would try not to die,” Mila says.

Nadia says, “That was not a medically strong promise.”

I press my fingers against my eyes for one second. “Both of you, please sleep.”

Mila looks toward the door. “Will you stay close?”

“I’ll be in the kitchen.”

“That’s not close,” Nadia says.

“In this apartment, it is,” I say.

That seems to work.

I kiss Mila first. Then Nadia.

Nadia grabs my wrist before I can leave. “Mama,” she says quietly.

“Yes?”

“Don’t let anyone bad come inside.”