Page 129 of Porcelain Lies

“Can we stay here for a bit?” Bobik asks, his head tilted back to catch the sunlight on his face.

I position his chair so he can see both the roses and the koi pond beyond the fountain. Close enough to the house for a quick retreat if needed, but far enough that he can pretend, just for a moment, that he’s not a prisoner in his own home.

The spot is defensible. Protected. As safe as anywhere can be in my world.

“Papa, did you know birds play games?” Bobik tracks a sparrow’s path with eager eyes. “I read about it. They have special movements, like a dance.”

“Da?” I settle onto a nearby bench.

“Like badminton, but with feathers and beaks instead of rackets.” His hands move animatedly as he explains.

“Birds who play tennis.” I chuckle.

“Not tennis, badminton.” He looks around us. “I bet we could play over there if we had a net. And rackets.”

“You want to play badminton? Now?” I frown at him.

This kid.

He nods eagerly. “I bet it would be good for me, too, Papa.” He flexes a puny bicep. “I could build my muscles… like you.”

Jesus.

“Can we do it?” His eyes sparkle. “Can we?”

I exhale a deep breath. “Da,malysh. Let’s play one of these bird games of yours.” I reach for my phone, getting Sasha. “We need a badminton set.”

“A what?”

“You heard me. There’s a strip mall a few blocks away. There’s a sports store there. They should have such a thing. Send a man.” I end the call. Bobik is grinning from ear to ear. The grin is still there twenty minutes later when Sasha’s man arrives carrying a large box.

As the men set up the makeshift court, I help Bobik position his wheelchair at an angle that gives him the best reach, showing him how to grip the racket properly. His determined expression mirrors my own as he practices a few swings.

“Like this,Papa?”

“Almost.” I adjust his grip slightly. “Try to keep your wrist loose.”

We start with gentle volleys, the shuttlecock arcing lazily between us. Each time Bobik makes contact, his face lights up with triumph. I find myself matching his enthusiasm, calling out encouragement.

“Good hit,syn!”

The shuttlecock sails past me, and I exaggerate my dive to catch it. Bobik’s laughter rings out, pure and unrestrained. When was the last time I heard him laugh like that?

“Did you see that,Papa? I got you!”

“Lucky shot.” I grin, sending the shuttlecock back in a high arc.

Bobik wheels himself into position, tongue poking out in concentration. The racket connects with a satisfying thwack. Back and forth we go, our movements falling into an easy rhythm.

Bobik’s laughter echoes across the lawn as I miss another shot, this time genuinely caught off guard by his improving aim. The sound wraps around me like a warm blanket, pushing away thoughts of business, betrayal, and blood.

“You’re getting slow,Papa!” he teases, readying his racket for another volley.

I retrieve the shuttlecock, shaking my head with mock indignation. “Slow? We’ll see about that,malysh.”

His giggles fill the air again as we resume our game, the setting sun painting everything in soft gold. In this moment, nothing exists beyond the arc of the shuttlecock and the joy in my son’s eyes.

The shuttlecock sails past my shoulder again. I make a show of stumbling, drawing another burst of delighted laughter from Bobik.

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