The knock on the door came again. The wind outside wailed like a wounded beast, battering snow against the windowpanes.
— Ivan, wake up, — she touched her husband’s shoulder. — Someone’s knocking.
Ivan sat up, blinking sleepily:
— In this weather? Maybe you’re overthinking it?
The electricity had left last night—winters in Ustinovo were always harsh, and 1991 had brought not only political upheaval but unprecedented frost.
The door had trouble opening. On the threshold stood a girl, fragile as a reed, wearing an elegant dark coat.
— Please help me, — her voice trembled. — You must hide him. Take care of him… They want to ki** him…
— Who are you? What’s happening?
But the girl had already vanished into the storm, Anna stood on the threshold, feeling surprised.
— What the… — Ivan trailed off at the sight of the baby.