After a few minutes of silence, he looks over at me, and his glazed eyes brighten a touch. Confused, he asks, “Is that you, Freckles?” I fist the duvet and pull it over me, tucking it under my chin. “Yeah,” I breathe into the dark. “It’s me.” He sighs, and as he takes in my face, his bloodshot eyes studying me, I feel content. Enough so that I fall asleep with his hand on my cheek, faintly feeling his thumb stroking under my eye. The last thing I hear are whispered words in Russian.
