Page 210 of Sexting the Pakhan

She lifts her head, still half-asleep. “Where’s Mila?”

“I said stay in bed,” I say.

Her eyes open wider, and she looks from me to the empty bed, then to the open window. Her face changes before she speaks.

“Mama.”

I don’t answer her. I can’t. If I answer, I’ll have to admit what is happening.

I run out of the room. The hallway is empty. The spare bedroom door is open. The bed inside is rumpled and cold, blanket thrown back on Ruslan’s side.

Ruslan is gone too.

For one horrible second, the thought hits me wrong, brutal and stupid: he took her.

Then I reject it so violently it almost makes me dizzy.

No. Not him.

Not Mila.

Something is wrong.

I move through the cottage, checking each room with shaking hands and no plan. The bathroom is empty. The kitchen is empty. The front room is empty except for the blanket on thesofa and one chair dragged slightly out of place. The front door is not fully shut.

A thin line of dawn shows through the gap.

I pull it open. Cold morning air rushes in, carrying damp earth, rain waiting to fall, and something metallic I don’t want to name.

“Mila!” I shout. My voice tears through the quiet yard.

No answer.

I step outside barefoot, not caring about the wet grass or the stones cutting into my feet. The sky is just beginning to pale through the trees, gray and weak, the kind of dawn that makes everything look unfinished. Behind me, I hear Nadia crying my name, but I don’t turn around.

“Mila!”

This time, there’s an answer.

Not close. Not clear.

But there.

“Mama!”

I run toward the sound. Branches scrape my arms. Wet leaves slap against my face. I don’t feel any of it properly. I only hear her voice again, thinner this time, frightened and breathless.

“Mama!”

Then she appears between the trees. My baby comes stumbling toward me with her coat open, hair wild around her face, one yellow ribbon missing, mud on her knees, and tears running down her cheeks. I drop to the ground before she reaches me,and she throws herself into my arms so hard that for a second I can’t breathe.

“Mama,” she sobs. “Mama, I ran. I did what he said. I didn’t stop.”

I hold her so tightly she squeaks, and then I force myself to loosen my grip enough to check her.

“Are you hurt?” I ask, touching her face, her arms, her shoulders, her hair. “Did they hurt you? Mila, look at me. Did anyone hurt you?”

She shakes her head, but she’s crying too hard to speak at first. Her hands clutch the front of my sweater, twisting the fabric like she’s afraid I will disappear if she lets go.