Page 28 of The Bratva King

“Buddy, do you think you can sit in here and watch TV while I finish work?”

He’s quiet. Of course, he is. He always gets like this when everything becomes too much.

I sit him on the couch and kneel in front of him. “I’m sorry that happened. I didn’t know she was bringing you.”

“Can I watch SpongeBob?”

I smile. “Sure. Did you eat your sandwich?”

He shakes his head.

“Okay. You can eat your sandwich and watch TV. I’ll finish work, and then we’ll go home. Okay?”

“Okay,” he murmurs.

I turn on the TV, find an episode he likes, and pull out his sandwich. Then, I tuck the blanket around him.

“You stay here, okay? I’ll be back in a little bit.”

He’s already focused on the screen. I’m a horrible mother. I use the TV to pacify him. I’ll deal with the guilt later.

I close the break room door and pray Nikolai doesn’t decide to stop by.

If I could afford real daycare, Luke would already be there. But it’s expensive. I’m hoping to get him into a specialized daycare that can give him the support he needs. I know he needs more than the average kid. I’ve made the call, and we’re on a waitlist to see a pediatric psychologist. Maybe then I can finally get some answers. Figure out whether this is more than everything he’s been through.

Then we can get the specific help he needs.

But as with everything else, it’s a waitlist. I just don’t know how much longer we can wait.

I look through the narrow window in the hallway at my son curled beneath his blanket, eating a sandwich in a place he should never have had to be.

I’m supposed to be the one who keeps him safe.

Instead, I’m leaving him alone so I can keep a job that still isn’t enough.

8

Nikolai

I’m heading toward the back elevator when I hear someone running. Not a very big someone. I step into the corridor and catch a glimpse of a dinosaur backpack disappearing around the corner.

“Again,” I mutter.

“Hey,” I call out.

What was his name? Luke.

“Luke, wait up.”

Nothing but footsteps. I jog after him and catch up just as he bursts onto the casino floor.

The floor is loud. Midday, but loud enough. The slots chime. Someone at a craps table shouts. The lights cycle through their endless sequence overhead.

The boy stops.

He stands at the edge of it all, taking it in. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t cry. He just stands there with his blanket clutched to his chest.

I move slowly, come up beside him, and crouch to his level.