Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
I can just focus on her.
And it is her. Sara, my ptichka. I know it even in the depths of my delirium. Whatever is happening to me, she’s there, touching me, speaking to me, feeding me sips of water. Often, she’s asking me things, her melodious voice filled with desperation and pleading, but I can’t answer her, can’t do anything but turn my head toward that voice and accept the fleeting comfort offered by her touch.
She gives up after a while, her tone changing to one of resignation, and I like that more, though not as much as when she’s crooning to me, her voice as soft and gentle as the kisses she presses to my cracked and burning lips.
They make me feel good, those kisses—at least until I sink into the darkness and the demons come, wrapping their tentacles around my chest, stabbing me with their scalding pokers. My side, my arm, my calf—they’re pitiless as they savage me, burning my flesh to the bone.
Pasha is there too, his skull half-missing, his brain grotesque underneath the glossy waves of his dark hair. “Papa!” he shouts, bouncing on me, driving the hot pokers deeper, stabbing me through to the heart.
“Please, Peter, stay with me,” Sara’s voice begs, and I latch on to it, fighting the demons in the darkness, struggling against their hold.
More kisses come. Her lips are cool and wet, oddly salty. Like tears. All those tears I’ve made her shed. But why is she crying again? I don’t want that. I want to soak in her caring, to imbibe her love, not her tears. She’d fought against me, but now she’s mine. Mine to take care of and protect. Except I can’t do anything but burn, the fire eating away at me, consuming me, blanketing my mind with the pain.
“Please, my darling. Tell me the password. I need to unlock your phone.”
The words should make sense, but they don’t, the sounds bouncing off my brain like sunlight off a lake.
“Papa, do you want to see my truck?” Pasha is back to jumping on me, his little feet like a wrecking ball slamming into my side. “Do you, Papa? Do you?”
I open my mouth to reply, but the demon tentacles wrap around my neck, choking me with a lasso of fire.
“Please, darling…” Tender hands smooth over my face and throat, cooling the burn inside. “Please, I need you to give me the password, so I can reach out for help.”
“Papa. Papa. Play with me.”
“The password, Peter, please. It’s our only chance.”
“Don’t leave, Papa.”
“Please, darling. I need you. Our baby needs you.”
“Please, Papa. I would be good. I promise, Papa. I would be good.”
The agony is unbearable. It feels like I’m cracking in half, the burning tentacles turning into whips as I fall deeper into the darkness.
“Stay with me, Peter. Please, darling…” The salty wetness is back on my lips, the voice pulling me up, shielding me from the demons. “I love you, and I can’t do this without you. Please… I can’t lose you too.”
Something dances on the tip of my tongue, something important that I need to remember. Something my ptichka needs.
Four numbers float up in my consciousness, and I seize them with effort.
It’s a birthday.
My friend Andrey’s birthday.
We’d always celebrated it at that awful camp.
“Zero six one five,” I whisper—or I try to. My tongue doesn’t want to obey. I try again, with the last of my strength. “Nol’ shest’ ahdeen pyat’. Ptichka, passvord den’ rozhden’ye Andreya.”
36
Sara
Shaking, I stand up as Peter lapses into feverish Russian, mumbling unfamiliar words interspersed with his son’s name, as he’s been doing for hours. Despite my best efforts, his condition is rapidly deteriorating, and I know that if I don’t get stronger antibiotics into his system, he won’t make it.
The penicillin I stole from the hospital can only do so much.
The wooden walls sway around me as I walk over to the sink and return with a cool, wet towel—the only thing that seems to help him. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, I smooth it over his face, neck, and chest, wiping away the sticky sweat. My arm trembles from exhaustion, my eyes burning from tears, but I don’t stop.
I can’t—not while there’s still a sliver of hope.
My whole body aches, my back spasming from the strain of transferring Peter from the wheelbarrow onto this bed. It’s past midnight, and the only thing I’ve eaten is the lone can of chicken noodle soup I found in a cupboard an hour ago. I tried to feed it to him, but I could only get him to swallow two sips. So I choked down the rest. Not for myself, but for the baby.
Peter’s child needs the nutrients.
The soup wasn’t a lot of calories, but it gave me a little energy—enough that I again tried to coax Peter into giving me the password.