She’ll come, little one. She’ll definitely come.
The other passengers looked at them curiously. A young woman with a strange child and a rickety suitcase: an unusual sight, to be honest.
All the way, I kept thinking: What kind of madness is this? Is it a joke? But what kind of joke? The baby was real, warm, and smelled of baby shampoo and cookies.
Peter was stacking firewood in the yard. When he saw me with the baby, he froze, holding a log.
“Masha, where are you from?”
“Not from where, but from whom. Meet Misha.”
I told him everything while I cooked semolina for the boy. My husband listened, frowned, and rubbed the bridge of his nose, a sure sign he was thinking hard.
“We need to call the police. Immediately.”
“Peter, which police? What shall I tell them? Did they hand me a child at the police station like a puppy?”
“So what do you suggest?”
