Vanya,” Miri said. It had been another day since he’d stopped speaking, stopped holding her hand. He hadn’t moved from his seat since he’d finished his equations. At first she thought it was because he was tired, working without sleep for days. But now she saw there was something different about him. Something she wasn’t yet ready to name.
Morning came and still Vanya didn’t get up. His skin glistened with sweat, but their compartment was cool. His lips were thin, thinner than ever, and paler. “Vanya,” Miri said. “Tell me about your equations.” She put her hand on his forehead. His skin burned. His pulse was weak and thready. She threw the blanket off of him and inspected his clothing. Had he been cut? He showed signs of an infection, but where? She couldn’t treat it if she couldn’t find it.
She examined his hands, where his nails had been pried off. Nothing beyond fresh ink stains. Whatever ailed him was internal. “Vanya!” she yelled. She slapped his face. He moaned but didn’t open his eyes. She dropped to her knees. “Vanya, come back to me. What’s wrong?”
“Take it.” He waved his notebook toward her.
“Vanya,” she said, shaking him. “Don’t leave me. Not now.”
Day bled to night. She covered him in blankets. And she spoke to him, spinning tales about their future, about their reunion with Babushka. She talked about finding their family in America. They wouldn’t go to Massachusetts—to Harvard. They’d go to Philadelphia. “Vanya, it will be beautiful. I can’t wait to see their great bell. Remember, they have a giant cracked bell? And our cousins. Our aunt and uncle.”
“Sasha will find you.” He kissed her hand. She stayed awake, deep into the night, talking to her brother. His pulse slowed. Their light burned away and Miri’s eyes closed. When she awoke, their compartment was still. And cold. She didn’t need to examine Vanya to know he was gone.