“Take him, I beg you!” The woman practically shoved a worn leather suitcase in my hands and shoved the boy toward me.
I almost dropped the bag of food; I was carrying treats from the city to our neighbors in the village.
“What? What? I don’t know you…”
“His name is Misha. He’s three and a half.” The woman grabbed my sleeve; her knuckles turned white. “In the suitcase… there’s everything he needs. Don’t leave him, please!”
The boy pressed himself against my leg. He looked up at me with his huge brown eyes, his tousled blond curls, and a scratch on his cheek.“You can’t be serious!” I tried to move away, but the woman was already pushing us toward the car.
“You can’t just do this! The police, child services…”
“There’s no time to explain!” Her voice trembled with desperation. “I have no choice, do you understand?” None!
A group of dacha residents caught us and shoved us into the crowded car. I looked back: the woman was still on the platform, her hands pressed against her face. Tears were streaming down her fingers.
“Mom!” Misha made a move toward the door, but I stopped him.
