“Be careful, Max. My father was a very cautious man, and they still got to him.” “I’ll be fine,” I assure her. The cab is on the street by the time I get downstairs. I’m just about to pull the car door open when a woman with a stroller bumps into me and drops a bag of groceries at my feet. “I’m so sorry,” she exclaims. “No problem.” I crouch down to help her pick up the items that spilled out, and she ducks down beside me. Smiling sweetly, she takes hold of my hand and something pricks my skin. “Night, night, pretty boy,” in a thick Russian accent are the last words I hear.
