Molly
This is how it is. Georgiy says and sits upright on the cat sofa searching his pockets. He hacks a smoker's cough and hangs his head between his legs. The wounded arm wrapped stiff in gauze is useless on his side. The nervous other hand scratches his peach fuzz scalp.
So yeah. Dadya. You helped me out of bad situation and now situation is worse.
Birds screech near the barn window warning off a cat or some other predator. Peter and I lower our guns and stand in front of him and wait. We don’t offer words.
All right. What have you done? Peter says at last studying Georgiy's anxious scratching.
Yah well, I don't know if you want your sweetheart to hear this. Georgiy lifts his eyes and smiles at me. His thin lips disappear.
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