Page 123 of Sexting the Pakhan

No answer.

I push the door open. The nap room is half-dark, lit by the hallway and the weak glow of a night lamp shaped like a moon. Tiny mats are stacked against one wall. A shelf of stuffed animals has tipped over, scattering bears and rabbits across the floor. The back window is open, and the curtain moves in the cold air.

At first, I see only the blood trail.

Then the man behind the low shelf shifts.

He’s on the floor, half-propped against the wall, one leg stretched out in front of him. His hand is clamped around histhigh, blood dark between his fingers and soaked into the fabric above his knee.

He lifts his head.

The room disappears around him.

Ruslan.

For a moment, my body simply refuses to believe it. Six years cannot fold like this. The past cannot be bleeding on a kindergarten mat while my daughter is missing and gunfire cracks outside.

But it’s him. Older. Paler. More gray at his temples. A scar near his jaw I’ve never seen before. Still Ruslan.

He looks at me, and recognition hits his face slowly, as if pain has dragged it up from somewhere deep.

“Zoya,” Ruslan says. My name sounds broken in his mouth.

I grip the doorframe. “What are you doing here?”

His eyes narrow despite the pain. “Leave.”

I almost laugh. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“You need to get out,” he says.

“My daughter is missing,” I say.

His expression changes.

Before he can speak, a tiny sound comes from the far corner.

A sniffle.

“Mila?” I whisper.

A glittery shoe appears from behind the stack of sleeping mats. Then Mila’s face peeks out, wet with tears, crownless and terrified.

“Mama?” Mila says.

I run to her and drop to my knees. She throws herself into my arms, shaking so hard I can barely hold her properly.

“I’m sorry,” Mila sobs. “I dropped the crown.”

“I don’t care about the crown,” I say, holding the back of her head. “I don’t care, baby. I have you.”

Ruslan makes a rough sound behind me.

I turn with Mila clutched to my chest. He’s staring at her. At the yellow dress. At the dark curls. For one awful second, I mean to leave him there.

That sounds cruel, even inside my own head, but the thought is clear. Even though I once had a huge crush on the man, or even something more… I can’t allow myself to go there.

Ruslan is bleeding on the floor of my daughters’ kindergarten. Gunfire is still cracking somewhere outside. Mila is shaking against my chest. Nadia is with Karina and Miss Elena, hopefully safe, hopefully still inside the classroom, hopefully not looking for me.