The train started moving. The woman grew smaller and smaller until she disappeared into the twilight.
Somehow, we sat down on a bench. The child curled up next to me and sniffed at my sleeve. The suitcase was pushed down my arm; it was heavy. What was in there, bricks?
“Auntie, will Mom come?”
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?”
Misha devoured the porridge, smearing it over his chin. He was very hungry, but he tried to eat carefully, holding the spoon correctly. A polite boy.
“Let’s at least see what’s in the suitcase,” I nodded.
We sat Misha down in front of the TV and put on “Nu, pogodi!” The suitcase opened with a click.
