Page 50 of 10 Days to Surrender

The doors swing shut in my face.

My reflection in the glass shows a wild-eyed stranger—hair matted with rain and blood, shirt clinging to half-healed scars. I press my palm to the cool surface. Somewhere beyond it, my heart beats in three bodies.

Just like that, the waiting begins.

20

SASHA

I’ve never hated anything more than these fluorescent lights.

It’s not the first time I’ve had that thought. Nor is it the first time I’ve squinted at lights just like these and wondered what fucking demon manufactures them. They have to be the product of some lower level of hell. The buzz, the glare, the intermittent flicker—it’s designed to drive a man mad.

It’s working.

I pace back and forth this cramped, overheated hallway, growling under my breath. Back and forth. Back and forth. A caged tiger in a bloodstained shirt.

An elderly woman clutches her rosary tighter as I stalk past her chair for the hundredth time. One look at her and I can guess her whole life story. Born here, raised here, will die here, in this barren patch of dirt. She’s never seen anything like me and she never will again.

So what the fuck do I care if she’s frightened?Guess what,babushka? I’m frightened, too. I’m fucking terrified—not only ofwhat might be happening on the other side of those stubbornly closed doors, but also of what I myself might do if the news that passes through them is anything less than,“Mr. Ozerov, your family is perfectly okay.”

Family.That’s a fucking word. For a long time now, it’s been meaningless to me. Since I buried my mother and broke my father’s neck, “family” has been Feliks and no one else.

Like everything else in my world, that has now changed.

A nurse approaches warily. She’s holding a clipboard between us like it would protect her from me if push came to shove. In Italian, she says, “Signore,you’re bleeding.”

I pause and look behind me. I can see the muddy path I’ve been treading up and down the linoleum. I can also see the red slash of smeared blood dripping next to every footprint. When I check my bandages, I notice that I’ve once again ripped stitches wide open.

I’m hyper-aware of everything going on around me. The old nonnawhisperingAve Mariaunder her breath. Mud caked beneath my fingernails. Paper rustling, wheels squeaking, and the lights, the damned lights, shrieking endlessly overhead.

Most of all, somewhere deep in my head, I hear the echoing scream.

Ariel’s scream.

The crunch of impact, skull on stone.

My hands, always fucking useless when it counts.

Pathetic.

I look at the nurse. “Non puoi aiutarmi in nessun modo che conti davvero.”

You cannot help me in any way that matters.

She backs away, making the sign of the cross over herself. Smart woman. I’m in no mood for their concern, their procedures, their fucking paperwork. My body can wait. Everything can wait.

I resume pacing. Another lap. The mud is starting to dry, flaking off my boots with each turn. I count the steps—seventeen from end to end.

The memory of Ariel’s face twisted in pain haunts me. I did this. I grabbed her. I caused her to fall. If anything happens to her or our children because of my stupidity, my impatience…

My fist connects with the wall before I realize I’ve thrown the punch. Plaster cracks; the old woman shrieks. More stares. A security guard shifts in his chair, hand drifting uncertainly toward the radio on his belt.

I almost wish he’d call for backup.Try and move me, motherfucker. I dare you to try.

But the doors I wish would open remain closed. I strain to hear something, anything, but there’s nothing.

A janitor slides past me, mopping down the hall. The scent of the antiseptic he’s using sears my nostrils. Citrusy. Mama’s perfume used to smell like that. Like lemons.

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