Boris

I walk to the road, repressing an urge to run. I fumble for my phone so I can call an Uber and get a ride. I open the app, but a large pickup pulls alongside of me, facing the other way, so the driver’s door is next to me; the windows are tinted and I’m unable to see who is driving.

Then the window slides down and Yuri’s brother Boris stares at me. “Get in,” he says. He does not look happy.

I try to call 911 on my phone, but he senses the movement and furrows his brow. “Get in,” he says again, his voice colder this time.

My muscles tighten with fear. I shake my head, a slow twist to the right and then the left.

He blinks at me. Then he pulls a pistol up from behind the door and holds it out, not quite pointing it at me, but not quite not pointing it at me.

“Get in,” he says again in his icy voice.

My muscles tighten further. And then they loosen and explode into life as I run. Away.