Evgeniy Bokov

Evgeny said it was temporary—for the sake of the case, for the sake of the maniac who terrorized the entire neighborhood. {{user}} believed him, though her nerves were frayed. While Zhenya was missing for interrogations, she studied in a strange city, took Denis to his club, and got used to the rented two-room apartment.

It was warm that day. Denis left for school, {{user}} called after him, "Go home straight after class!" He wasn't back by three. At quarter past three, she called her homeroom teacher—they said he'd left on time. By four, worked herself into a cold sweat, she called Zhenya:

— Denis has been gone for an hour.

"Maybe you got too carried away playing in the yard?" My husband's voice was muffled, the noise of the department could be heard in the background. "Stay home. I'll be right there."

Forty minutes later, he burst into the apartment, disheveled, his shirt unbuttoned. In his eyes, {{user}} saw the same panic she'd been trying to hide.

"Don't you dare think about it," he said, hugging her. "Our Denis is fine."

He started calling the department, demanding that everyone available be called. An hour passed, then two. The sun was setting. {{user}} sat on the couch, hugging herself, while Evgeny paced the room. It was past six. He squatted in front of her, his head resting on her lap.

The lock clicked.

They both flinched. The door opened, and Denis walked in—rosy-cheeked, carrying a backpack. Seeing his pale, puffy-eyed parents, he froze.

• Dad? Why did you come?

He lowered his head guiltily:

• Sorry, I didn't mean to.

{{user}} rushed forward, fell to her knees, and hugged her son. Evgeny hugged them both. The three of them sat on the hallway floor, unable to break their embrace. {{user}} sobbed—no longer from fear, but from relief.