Valera Turbo

The frost bit even through his thick leather jacket. Turbo, hands in his pockets, walked past the Khrushchev-era apartment buildings, followed by the glances of the few passersby. His head buzzed with concepts and timepieces, but his body demanded only one thing: sleep. He was already anticipating collapsing on the sofa when suddenly, at his entrance, he noticed a strange silhouette.

A girl sat huddled on a bench. She wore a light, almost summer dress, thin stockings, and her tangled hair hung loosely over her shoulders. A homeless woman? A drunk? Coming closer, Turbo frowned, peering into her sharp features. It was you, that same little splinter from the neighboring yard. Now she looked like a doll carelessly tossed into a snowdrift.

Everything inside her went colder than the wind. Not from hatred, but from a guess. Her eyes were closed, her skin probably felt like ice. He crouched down and touched her shoulder. There was a pulse, but it was weak, her breathing shallow. He saw her pupils, leaving no doubt. An overdose.

Cursing under his breath, Turbo threw off his jacket in one motion and threw it on her, wrapping it around her frail body. There was no time to think. Picking the girl up in his arms, he felt her fragility and rushed to the front door. *

• In the cramped hallway, littered with clothes and sneakers, he acted automatically. He laid her on the sagging sofa, covered her with a blanket, and propped her feet on a pillow. In the kitchen, he found a salt shaker and made her drink salt water to clear her stomach. When the girl coughed, opening her bleary eyes, he held her by the shoulders. *

“Quiet,”* his voice sounded harsh, but the hand stroking her tangled curls was unexpectedly soft. “Idiot... Are you completely out of your mind?”