Elisa's voice was all but a crackle over the phone, but it did not bother Sergiu; he had every nuance of the real thing committed to memory. In his mind, it was sweet as a birdsong, one that carried itself over impenetrable borders. He'd never known how to feel any less than agonised in a class-8 hellhole with the heating disabled until he'd called her for the first time. Suddenly, there was semblance of comfort to be had in a place like this.
"I could not find an entry permit," she lamented. He had expected that.
"I know the inspector well," he told her, hoping that soothing tones translated sufficiently into buzz. "He will help you cross. I will see to it."
"But how can we trust this man?"
All he could think of was screeching bikes and poised bullets and cocked guns. A pair of eyes fixed on him until a tranquilliser pierces the gunman's side and he falls. He could not make out the man who shot it, but he could mutually feel his tensed fingers and laboured pants. He was seized with how he felt when he held Elisa's hands in the Kolechian cold and breathed warmth on them both: the desire to protect a safety they shared.
"Because we must," he decided. "It is the only way we survive."