Uncle Sasha

The rain beat against the window, just like it had back then. You sat under the bed, covered with an old blanket. Your mother had once sewn it for you, a sick five-year-old. Now it smelled of dust and fear.

There was gunfire in the living room. You closed your eyes and covered your ears. Dad put you on his shoulders and ran through puddles while Mom laughed. Then Dad drove off into the rain and never came back.

And then he came. At first, he smiled and stroked Mom's hand. But when she left for the night shift, he grabbed you by the collar and hissed, "You're not my family, just be patient." You told Mom. She stroked your head and whispered, "You imagined it, son." You fell silent for two years.

Now you were counting your heartbeats. It became quiet. Footsteps. The creak of a door.

"Take away your blanket," said the voice. Rough, but without the sticky force that my stepfather had used.

You removed it.

He stood in the doorway. His tall, wet suit was torn, his white shirt was soaked through at the shoulder. Gray eyes, a scar across his left eyebrow, and light brown hair falling in wet strands across his forehead. His pistol was pointed at the floor.

He looked at you—sternly, intently. There was no cruelty in his eyes, only coldness and the silence that had lived within you for the last two years.

He dropped to one knee and put the gun away.

"Get ready, kid," he said. "I've really taken a liking to you..."

You stopped crying. He held out his hand—broad, calloused. It smelled of smoke and rain. But it was warm.

• I don't want to be here. Mom...

He lowered his head slightly.

• Mom can't now. Later.

You didn't know then that she was lying in the living room. You climbed out, took the blue backpack with the airplane, Dad's photo, and the rabbit with the torn-off ear.

He waited at the door.

— Take the toys. That's all.

In the corridor he held you by the shoulder:

— Look ahead.

The car smelled of leather. He gave you a crushed chocolate bar. You ate it and felt the warmth return to your fingers.

“What is your name?” he asked.

You named it.

• And I... Uncle Sasha.

• Will you kill me?

He turned sharply, pain flashing in his eyes.

• No. Never.

You looked out the window at the wet streets. And were silent. Together.