Page 61 of I’m The Worst

My breath catches. He looks unhinged. Something in his eyes makes my stomach drop. He turns without another word, dragging me along. I stumble after him, trying to keep up, his grip locked tight on my jacket.

The wind howls. Blinding snow whips across my face. It’s all I can see—white and endless.

We walk.

And walk.

And walk.

I lose feeling in my toes first. Then my fingers. My face. Everything goes dull. All I can focus on is moving forward.

One step.

Then another.

Don’t stop.

Don’t fall.

I don’t know how long we’ve been out here when the sound of a distant engine cuts through the wind. My head jerks up. Lights? Faint at first—then clearer. A small town.

Wolff doesn’t say a word, just keeps moving until we reach the edge of it. Buildings come into view. Dim lights. A grocery store. A few scattered shops.

And in the center⁠—

An inn.

It looks like it’s barely standing. Missing roof tiles, peeling paint, the kind of place people forget exists. And right now, it might as well be Heaven. Wolff finally releases me as we step inside.

Warm air thaws my face as the door shuts behind us. My body almost gives out from the sudden shift in temperature.

The lobby is empty.

He strides to the counter and slaps his hand down on a small bell. The sharp ding echoes through the space, bouncing off cracked, yellowed wallpaper.

No one answers.

For a second, it seems abandoned. Then a woman appears from the back, eyes flicking between us. She says something in Russian. Wolff doesn’t answer. He pulls out a stack of cash and slides it across the counter.

Her eyes widen.

She takes it without hesitation and hands over a key. Her gaze flicks to me. Then back to him.

Wolff jerks his chin toward the stairs.

“Move.”

The room is small and outdated. Brown and beige cover everything, and random mismatched animal paintings hang on the peeling walls. There’s a single queen-size bed. A dresser, a small table, and two wooden chairs.

I stop in the middle of it, arms wrapped tight around myself.

“You’re insane.”

He drops the bags on the dresser and moves to the bed.

“Stop bitching. You lived, solnyshko.” He exhales heavily and sits, bending to untie his boots.

“Solnyshko?” I glare at him. “You’ve said that before. What does it even mean?”