Page 87 of Vasily the Hammer

It’s a scramble. There’s an urgent problem. Ana is rushing behind me, attempting to dry us both off as I pull clothes out of the store bags. I’m still drenched when I pull on the tee shirt and sweat pants, and the synthetic fiber clings to me like it’s going to fuse with my flesh and I’m going to be the clearance rack forever. And when Ana throws just a pair of panties and my hoodie on, I shove her back so hard as she tries to leave the room with me that she stumbles and glares at me.

“Just until I know what’s going on,” I hiss, not saying aloud that she also needs to put on a pair of pants if literally anyone is here other than the people who were here when we got in the shower.

There is, but it’s a woman. It takes me a moment to remember who she is. No wonder, as I’ve only met her once, and it was through Ana’s phone screen. And there’s someone else, with a tiny but excited voice, babbling a mile a minute, but I can’t see them because Dima is squatted down in front of them, blocking my view.

Dima straightens up, and the source of the voice peeks around him.

I grab onto the wall for support. I try to speak, to say a name, but nothing comes out.

He’s looking at me, he’s smiling, and there’s nothing here that’s going to get in our way this time.

“Daddy?”

I was wrong. I was so wrong about how it would actually feel to hear that the first time. He might no longer be a baby, but he’smybaby.

I drop down to my knees, just like Ana did on the rooftop, and Artom runs to me, throwing himself in my arms.

“I know I never met you, but I missed you so much,” he whispers, his voice soft and secretive and absolutely perfect.

I hug him and squeeze him, kiss him and hold him so tight I don’t think I’ll ever let him go. I can’t find my voice, though, so I mouth, “Thank you,” to Camilla.

Kseniya swipes furiously at tears, Alex laughs at her, and Kseniya socks him in the arm.

I’ll never call him out for it, but I catch Dima ducking down as though to pick something up so he can discreetly wipe his own tears away.

“I like dogs,” Artom says as he drives his little matchbox car over the path he’s created from utensils we found in the kitchen. There isn’t much here to entertain him, but Camilla’s kids are really into cars, I guess. She had a handful of them in the bottom of her purse.

I played with these when I was little. I had a bucket of them I had to leave behind in Russia. I have this idea in my head that kids are just video game drones these days and only want the mostexpensive toys, but I’m now thinking that, at least at his age, he’s happy with whatever he’s given and doesn’t care if they’re toys of a bygone era. “I like dogs, too,” I tell him confidently. “I’ve never had one, though.”

“I haven’t either.” He looks up at me, his eyes gigantic. The same blue as mine, but somehow, the color is so much sadder with the damp sheen rimming them and the dip in his pale brows and the way his bottom lip curls in slightly, like he might be chewing on it. “I’ve always wanted one.”

“Yeah? Then as soon as I can take you home, I’ll get you—”

Above his head, Ana, Camilla, and Kseniya are all making kill gestures, like I shouldn’t promise him that as soon as we get home, I’m going to get him a dog. I’m absolutely going to get him a dog though. If my boy wants a dog, he’s going to get a dog. Whatever he wants, he gets. I’m not a monster. I’m getting him a dog.

But the look on Ana’s face as she slashes her hand across her throat tells me that if I want to get in her pants again any time soon, I better not promise to get him a dog.

“—a... pass? To the dog park?” I offer instead. I don’t think that’s real. I’m pretty sure if you show up at the dog park, they just let you in. I’m not sure if people like random, dog-less strangers in dog parks, but he’s a little kid. They can’t say no to a little kid who’s enthusiastic about dogs.

Whether that was the best correction or not, the girls all look relieved by the new promise and go back to their conversation, although I can tell they’re paying attention to everything I do.

It’s fine. They’re all moms. I clearly have a lot to learn. It’ll come with time. The important thing here is the stuff I was worried about? Stuff like how to have a conversation with a kid and how to entertain a kid and how to hug a kid? That’s easy.

We can just sit here on this bedsheet from the TJMaxx bag, that we laid out on the floor because I didn’t trust the carpet, all crisscross applesauce as we make little ramps and rumble strips with spoons and Chinese takeaway chopsticks, and have a good time.

“Hey, Artom?”

“Yeah, Daddy?”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too, Daddy.”

The women all glare at me as they retrieve their well-used tissues. But I can’t help it. And as gooey as it makes me feel when Artom says it back to me, it’s not what’s important. He needs to know I love him, that’s it. And I haven’t done a good job of that for anyone in my life, I don’t think.

“Hey, Artom?”

“Yeah, Daddy?”

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