“Don’t you have child labor laws in Russia?” I say to Alla. “She is not child,” Alla grunts. “She is demon.” Alla’s English is about on par with the name of the diner—comprehensible, but not exactly elegant. Since my Russian remains gibberish to anyone besides Adrik, I’m not one to judge. Misha pushes her glasses up her nose, fixing her sister with a calm stare. “It’s not the medieval era. I’m not a demon just because I bathe every day.” “I bathe,” Alla retorts. “With soap?” Misha demands.
