Page 82 of Porcelain Lies

I pull up a chair as he arranges the pieces. His movements are precise, methodical. Just like his approach to everything else.

“Queen’s Gambit?” He raises an eyebrow, making his first move with confidence.

I study the board, recognizing the complex opening he’s chosen. Most children his age would go for simple attacks, but Bobik thinks five moves ahead. As we trade pieces, he explains the mathematical probability of each potential outcome.

When he takes my bishop with a subtle move I didn’t see coming, his eyes light up. Not with triumph, but with pure satisfaction at getting it right.

My king falls into his carefully laid trap, leaving no escape.

“Checkmate,Papa.” He beams with happiness.

Pride swells in my chest as I tip over my king. Most fathers might feel stung losing to their little kid. But watching Bobik’s mind work — it’s better than any victory.

“Pretty good,malysh.” I lean back, studying the final position. “You saw the whole combination from the start?”

He nods, already setting up the pieces again. “The probability of success increased by 47% once you moved your knight to f3. It opened the diagonal I needed.”

Bozhe moy.

This kid.

A knock at the door interrupt his explanation.

A security guard puts his head in. “Doc’s here, boss.”

I frown, not expecting the interruption. “Send him in.”

Dr. Malhotra enters, his presence immediately shifting the energy in the room. Bobik’s excitement about chess fades, replaced by the familiar tension that comes with medical discussions.

“Mr. Tarasov.” Malhotra nods respectfully. “I was in the area and thought I’d come by. It’s time for Bobik’s three-month checkup.”

“Go ahead,” I tell him.

I lean back in my chair, watching Malhotra’s hands move with practiced efficiency over Bobik’s spine. Every touch, every measurement carries weight. The doctor’s expression remains neutral, but I catch the slight furrow of his brow when testing the lower vertebrae.

Olga hovers nearby, her bony fingers twisting the hem of her cardigan. Our eyes meet briefly — her worry mirrors my own, though neither of us speaks it aloud. Bobik chatters through the examination, explaining black hole theory to Malhotra, who responds with appropriate interest while continuing his work.

“Can you feel this?” Malhotra presses various points along Bobik’s legs.

“No change from last time,” Bobik reports clinically, as if discussing someone else’s body. “Sensation stops at the L4 vertebra.”

My jaw clenches. He shouldn’t know these terms, shouldn’t discuss his condition with such detachment. But that’s my son — processing everything through the lens of science, even his own paralysis.

“Good flexibility in the upper body,” Malhotra notes, helping Bobik sit up straight. “The new chair is helping with posture.”

Relief washes over Olga’s face, her shoulders dropping slightly. But I notice how Malhotra avoids my direct gaze. He’s found something he doesn’t want to discuss in front of Bobik.

“All finished,” Malhotra announces with forced cheerfulness. “You’re doing very well, Bobik.”

The words should comfort me. Instead, they set off warning bells — the kind that have kept me alive in this business. Doctors, like criminals, have tells when they’re hiding something.

I straighten in my chair, already planning how to get Malhotra alone. Whatever he’s not saying, I need to know. No matter how bad it might be.

I catch Malhotra’s subtle head tilt toward the door. After ruffling Bobik’s hair and promising to return soon, I follow the doctor outside.

The walk to his car feels endless. Each step increases the weight in my gut — that familiar sensation before bad news drops. Malhotra’s shoulders are too stiff, his pace too measured. The doctor’s usual Oxford-educated confidence has vanished.

“What aren’t you telling me?” My voice comes out harsh in the quiet street.

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