Raivis has never seen his own ribs before, but he can now. He's never known what real hunger is. He knows now that being peckish for supper after a day of breakfast, lunch, and snacking is not the same as being truly hungry. He feels so empty right now. So small. So lonely. Maybe he could try eating grass, or leaves on the trees out there. They probably wouldn't taste very good, but cows eat grass, and they don't seem to mind it. And giraffes eat leaves, don't they? Then again, boys and giraffes are different things . . .
And that's when he hears the voice.
"Raivis? Are you here?"
He thinks he might recognize this voice, or maybe just its accent. It isn't Russian, not one of the beady-eyed thugs. It's not Estonian, either. He can't put a finger on it, but the boots clomping down the hall outside Raivis's room sound kind of mean. Maybe he should be scared of this half-remembered man.
Maybe he should have already run.
But there's only one exit to this room. He's tried the windows; they're all stuck shut.
"Raivis? I'm not gonna hurt ya, okay? I'm here to take you back to Eduard. Not to Ivan, just to Eduard." A door across the hallway creaks as the man checks the room. Which will he check next, the one beside that—or turn around and open Raivis's door?
What if he does want to take me to Eduard? But what if he's lying? How can I tell?
The man in the hallway turns around.
Raivis panics and hurries into the supply closet near the back wall. He leaves one of its double doors slightly ajar; that'll make it look more natural, won't it?
The man opens the door. His voice is gentle. "Raivis, are you in here?"
Yes.
"I'm gonna be honest, alright? Ivan sent me to kill you after you ran away from him. That was really brave, by the way, and nice of Eduard to help you. He told me what happened. But listen, Raivis, I was never gonna hurt you. I'd never touch a kid. That's not cool. I don't like that. In fact, I'm gettin' out of this hurting people business altogether. You wanna know the last person I hurt? Ivan. I killed him."
Raivis can't help but gasp at that. Ivan Braginski is dead? A dark god like him, felled by mere mortals? Maybe this man really is an angel, like Eduard spoke about. Did God finally answer Raivis and send an angel to rescue him?
"He's not gonna hurt me, you, Eduard, or anybody else ever again. You're safe now, Raivis." The man pauses. "You might as well just come out, buddy. I can see your wrappers on the floor."
Raivis peeks out of the closet, a little fox in a hole. He sees the protein bar wrappers on the floor, littered like silvery leaves. "Oh." He looks toward his savior and feels his eyes widen in surprise.
Gilbert raises a pale eyebrow. "Something on my face?"
Raivis steps out, putting his backpack on his shoulders. "No," he replies. "I just never knew angels could wear cowboy hats."
Gilbert gives him an odd look over his sunglasses, and takes off the hat, holding it over his chest like a wild west gentleman. "Better?"
Raivis peers up at Gilbert. Backlit from the natural light in the hallway, Gilbert's ashen hair glows a gentle white, almost like . . . an aura.
Raivis smiles. "Better."
Gilbert shakes his head, ruffles the boy's hair with a gloved hand. "C'mon, let's get you back to Eduard. You two have some catchin' up to do."