Chapter 11

Agent Johnson and Irina came a few more times with questions about his previous work, his family and everything else. They also went over the whole story again three more times, to catch him in a lie, he supposed. Agent Johnson didn't believe that he and his mother both had worked on civilian nuclear power despite coming from a KGB family, but he couldn't prove it wasn't true, mostly because it was true.

The pain in his abdomen had faded from unbearable to merely bothersome, and the doctor had allowed him to start taking some liquids by mouth, though he still couldn't have solid food. He was getting pretty good at using the board to draw whatever he needed, and the nurses sometimes brought him sweet liquids or hard candies to suck on as a treat. He might have been their easiest patient, since he couldn't ask for anything except some water or help managing the tubes when he needed to use the WC. And he'd always smile and nod at whatever they said, which seemed to please them.

After he'd been in the hospital for about a week and was allowed to eat tiny amounts, Agent Johnson returned with a manila folder. "My superiors were satisfied with your cooperation," he said, though he himself looked anything but. He pulled out documents and laid them on the bed while Irina explained: a driver's license for identification, a green card so he could find work, a fake Soviet passport stamped to make it appear he had entered the country legitimately. "We don't have any immediate need for your services, but I suggest you lie low and avoid trouble. We will be watching, and I'd guess we're not the only ones."

Alexei thanked them and quickly gathered up the documents after they left. His old life was gone forever, and his new life was in this manila folder. Panic gripped him as he realized how insubstantial it was. They'd given him the basic tools to start a life, but he had no idea where he might sleep, what he might eat, if he could find work without speaking English. The hospital was a comfortable cocoon, but he couldn't stay there forever.

Then someone knocked on the door. "Yes?" he asked.

The door flung open, and in marched Joyce, with Murray behind, looking somewhat embarrassed. She checked his forehead – he didn't think he'd ever had a fever, but that was beside the point – asked him how he was feeling, and then launched into a tirade about the government types who'd kept him under lock and key for so long, barely giving Murray time to translate. Alexei reassured her he was fine. The government types had taken good care of him. He showed them the identification cards, and Murray commented it was one of the better fakes he'd seen.

"I'm sorry about your friend Hopper," he said. Joyce nodded, but she clearly didn't want to discuss it. "The children are safe?"

"They are. We closed it."

"Good."

The doctor came in with some forms for Joyce and the nurses gave his injuries one last look, while Murray quickly explained it all. He was ready for discharge, and Joyce had agreed to give him a place to stay, at least in the short term. He'd need to be careful not to tax his stomach with large meals or to tear his stitches with heavy lifting. And no more than one alcoholic drink a day, since they'd had to remove half his liver. His stomach would eventually expand to its original capacity, but it wasn't clear how much his liver would recover. Alexei shrugged. He'd never been much of a drinker anyway, and he felt all right, considering that half of two major organs had been blown away. The bullet was still embedded in the muscle of his back, and it was less damaging to leave it than to dig it out. He asked Murray to translate his thanks to everyone, and then they left him to put on the clothes Joyce had brought.

They'd cut off his old things when he'd gone into surgery, and the shirt and the T-shirt were beyond fixing, anyway. He did get his old shoes back, though, which was a relief. It had taken him weeks of searching every department store he ran across to find a comfortable, sturdy pair in his size. Joyce had bought him more or less the same clothes they'd found him in, which was thoughtful. They were a little big, but perhaps she'd decided it was better to err in that direction than for the clothes to be too tight. Or maybe he'd just lost some weight, with most of his nutrition coming through an IV. Either way, it was nothing he couldn't cope with by cinching the belt a little tighter.

Murray joined him in the backseat and explained what the kids were calling the Battle of Starcourt while Joyce drove. Apparently there was some sort of monster made of melted people that wanted to kill Hopper's daughter. He asked questions and repeated that back several ways, sure that Murray's vocabulary had failed him somehow, but when he kept getting the same answer he simply accepted it. Hopper had mowed down several soldiers and they'd stolen their uniforms. Alexei winced at that. Those men hadn't deserved to die. He didn't know if there was another option, but he also couldn't imagine Hopper worrying too much about the Russians he'd killed. Then Murray had gone through the vents to create a distraction, giving Joyce and Hopper a chance to find the vault and get the keys. Alexei didn't understand why they had sent the only one who spoke Russian to create the distraction, but he doubted Joyce and Hopper would have agreed to be separated. Then Grigori had found them, and Hopper had had to kill him before Joyce had blown up the key.

Alexei let it sink in a moment. "My machine killed him."

"Joyce doesn't blame you. You didn't know what you were doing."

It was true, he hadn't, but the heart wasn't logical. Still, Joyce couldn't hate him too much, if she was giving him a home. He was surprised when they pulled up to a small house. He hoped whatever family shared the house with hers wouldn't mind a new neighbor. Well, he was quiet, and clean, and accustomed to tight quarters, so he couldn't bother them too much.

Murray followed them in as Joyce gave him the tour of the house, which apparently she didn't have to share with any neighbors. He hadn't imagined Joyce was so wealthy. She showed him the kitchen, the bathroom, the boys' room, the room where Hopper's daughter had moved in. That was unwelcome. Hopper's daughter would definitely hate him. Well, he would take any blame she needed to give.

Joyce apologized that the couch was the only space available. Someone had set up a folding panel to give him a little privacy, and it made a serviceable little room. He assured her it was quite enough. He and his brother had shared the living room until their grandparents had died and freed up a bedroom, and after that he'd lived in dormitories or communal-style apartments. And he had a window, which made this arrangement immeasurably better than living below ground.

They all chatted as best they could until the sun got low and Murray decided to go back to his home. He slapped Alexei on the back, then apologized when Alexei grimaced. "Good to see you well," he said.

After Murray left, Joyce heated up two plates of some sort of layered noodle dish. It was good, but Alexei could only manage a few bites before his stomach was groaning. Then they lit cigarettes and listened to the night settle around them. Joyce looked far away, until something seemed to jolt her back. She went and grabbed a small package, wrapped in colored paper. A gift? He didn't deserve a gift, but he didn't know how to tell her that, so he opened it and smiled. A small Russian-English dictionary. This would help.

"Dank you," he said, then flipped through the pages to complete his thought. "You. Are. Kind. Friend."