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When we walk into the hospital, the emergency room is in complete chaos. Every chair is full, leaving others to stand along the walls. People are coughing, moaning in pain, and clutching various limbs while waiting for an available bed.
I wonder how many of them were injured in the riots. Even so, regular accidents and illnesses haven’t stopped in the wake of the revolution, but the hospital is too backed up to help them.
A nurse at the reception desk is trying to answer the phones ringing off the hook while another runs out the double doors into the waiting room. Behind her, I catch a glimpse of a row of stretchers lined against the wall—and there are people in them.
The doors close, shielding them from view again. The nurse looks like she hasn’t slept, and flyaway hairs have fallen out of her bun.
Dad and I walk to the reception desk with Ivan on our heels, assessing the waiting room for any threats. We wait for a long time for the nurse to acknowledge us, which frustrates me. I bounce up and down on my toes, seeking an outlet for all this nervous energy.
Alek is in this building, but I can’t get to him.
At last, the nurse looks up and says something to Dad, who responds in fluent Russian. He pulls out his black, diplomatic passport and shows it to her to confirm he’s a U.S. Ambassador. I hope it carries some weight around here.
The nurse replies with a nod. She gestures to the double doors and buzzes us through.
Dad must have gotten a room number because he heads down the hallway with purpose. As we walk, I glance at the people on the stretchers. Some are covered in blood, while others moan in pain. A few people are unconscious, and I can’t help but wonder if they’ve died waiting for care. Medical staff move like a flurry of snowflakes, bouncing from bed to bed to check on patients.
Most of the rooms have curtains to shield patients from view, but at the end of the corridor is a room with solid walls. It has a window, but the blinds are pulled shut. Two guards stand on either side of the door with rifles in hand, and I recognize their uniforms from the President’s Guard.
I’m apprehensive of them, given how some of them were moles planted by the Labor Party. But I suppose if they wanted Alek dead, they’d have done it already.
Alek is on the other side of that door. My heart leaps.
Once again, Dad flashes his diplomatic passport to the guards, and they wave us through. Unable to contain myself, I dash forward and throw the door open.
The room is rather dark, with only a small, recessed light in the ceiling. Alek is lying in bed bare-chested, his injured arm hanging in a sling around his neck. He has an IV hooked up to him as beeping machines create a background hum.
When our eyes meet, he gives me a relieved smile. “Come here, malishka.”
The floodgates burst open to let tears flow down my face. He holds his good arm open for me, and I launch myself at him, burrowing my face into his chest. I can’t stop crying as the relief washes over me.
He shifts to the edge of the bed, which gives me enough room to crawl in beside him. With his uninjured arm, he pulls me closer and holds me tight, pressing a long kiss on my forehead.
“I can’t believe it.” My leg entwines with his, but it’s still not enough to satisfy my need to be close to him.
Dad comes beside the bed and folds his arms. “So, they let you go?”
“Yes,” Alek confirms. “They have little use for me now except as a figurehead. Otherwise, I’m a free man.”
“That speech was really something. Well done.”
Alek shifts on the bed beside me and winces. “So, can I take that to mean we have your support? That the United States will back the revolution?”
My dad uncrosses his arms and puts his hands in his pockets. “I spoke with the Secretary of State earlier. We have a vested interest in fighting Russian influence in the region. Assuming we can get all the congressional approvals, you can count on our support, whether you need troops, weapons, or financial aid. We’re here to help.”
Alek gives him a weak smile. “Thank you. Relations between our two countries will only improve from here.”
“Yes, I think so, too. Anyway, I’ll give you two some privacy. I’ll be in the hall if either of you need anything.” He turns and crosses the room, his shoes tapping against the linoleum with each footstep. But when he wraps his hand around the doorknob, he pauses. “By the way, my condolences for your father.”
Alek’s hand gives my arm a small squeeze. “Thanks, but I don’t need them.”
Dad nods before leaving the room, shutting the door behind him.
Silence falls between the two of us, and we drink each other in. He holds me close, and as I lie on his chest, his steady heartbeat and even breathing comforts me.
So much has happened in a short time—events that will shape our future together. There will be time to discuss all that, but for now, we’re content to sit here and bask in our reunion.
“How’s your arm?” I ask.
