I held my breath. Money. Piles and piles of bills, tied with security bands.
“My God,” Peter exhaled.
I grabbed a bundle at random. Five-thousand-ruble bills, one-hundred-ruble bills. I figured there were about thirty bundles, no less.
“Fifteen million,” I whispered.
“Peter, that’s a fortune.”
We looked at each other and at the laughing boy, watching the wolf chase the hare.
Nikolai, Peter’s old friend, found a way out. He came over a week later, and we drank tea and chatted.
“You can register him as an abandoned child,” he said, scratching his bald head. “Just like he was found on the doorstep. A friend of mine works in social services and will help you with the paperwork.
Although… it will require some… organizational expenses.”
By then, Misha was already adjusting. He slept in our room on Peter’s old camp bed, ate oatmeal and jam for breakfast, and followed me around the house like a tail.
He named the chickens: Pestrushka, Chernushka, Belyanka. Only at night did he sometimes whine, calling for Mom.
“What if they find his real parents?” I hesitated.
If they find them, so be it. But for now, the boy needs a roof over his head and a warm meal.
