Page 67 of Following Their Heart

I will never know. Whether I would have had days with her or the rest of my lifetime, I was robbed of it.Shewas robbed of her life. Because of me.

Why had God done this to me? I was a good man. A good husband. A good father. I honored God. I went to our Orthodox church and even continued studying the Bible in prison.

After Anechka died, I haven’t touched the Bible. I don’t even have one anymore.

It was months after burying Tamara and our daughter before I could bring myself to leave our home. But eventually, I couldn’t fight the urge anymore. Yellowstone was calling, and I had to heed the call. It was a supernatural call. This much I understood. I had hoped that maybe if I listened, I would begin to understand why my touch meant a more certain death than the Virus that killed the world.

But no understanding came. At least none beyond the Reverend assuring me that the Working bestowed this “Gift” on me for a reason.

I have spent my time here hiding my Gift. Using it only when Jud insisted, and often weeping into my pillow at night afterward, remembering my daughter.

Maybe it is time to explore this part of myself I never asked for. Maybe it is time to begin understanding it. Nothing will bring my Anechka back, but maybe if I can learn to control my gift, I can honor her.

I take off one glove.

“Atta boy,” Doc says.

“I am no boy.”

“Whatever. Just touch the dead bird, asshole.” He extends the bird, still cradled in both his hands. He is taunting me with his words, but his gentle handling shows his reverence. He cares for these birds and seems to believe we can—I struggle to even think it—restore their lives.

“Put it down,” I tell him. “I will not risk touching you.”

Doc lays the bird on the ground at his feet then takes a big step back. The respect he shows not only the bird, but my Gift, encourages me.

I stoop and lift the bird with my gloved hand. In my head, I hear my mother’s Ukrainian scolding. “Put that down! It’s covered in disease!” She would not approve of me resting my bare palm over its silky wing, stroking it along the grain of the feathers.

It feels wrong touching something that was so recently alive. It is like when I awoke beside Cora that first time. Panic rises in me.I will kill her!But this bird is already dead. I cannot harm it.

“Listen to your Gift,” Doc says.

I cock a brow at him, wondering how, but I say nothing. I simply try to do as he says. I stroke the stiff bird with my ungloved hand, and I dive deep inside of myself. I search the darkness of my mind, and a single word glows like a candle flame.

Zhyttya.

Life.

But the word seems to exist in my mind free of the constraints of language. It is more of an idea than a collection of symbols.

I touch the bird, and I focus on the concept, the flame.Life. Life. Life.

Nothing happens.

“This is stupid,” I say again.

“No, it’s not.” Doc comes near me.

I back up.

“No. Stand very still.” He reaches out his hand toward the bird.

Panic rises. I jerk backwards, bird and all. “You fool! You’ll die!” I could not live with myself if Doc touched me!

“Then stand fucking still,” he grumbles, coming close again. “Don’t move a muscle. I want to see what happens when we touch it at the same time.”

“It’s too dangerous.” But I’m curious too. This time when he stretches his hand toward the bird, I stand as still as I possibly can. I don’t even breathe.

“Focus on your Gift,” Doc says.

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