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Marina, then a senior surgical nurse, watched my patients during my first overnight shift after Misha was born. She never asked why I disappeared into the supply closet every three hours with a breast pump. She smuggled cake into the surgeons’ lounge on my birthday and once threatened to staple my phone to my hand after I ignored her messages during a long shift.

Her silence makes me check the screen again.

Marina always answers, even if the answer is an insult or a photograph of coffee strong enough to remove paint. I call her. It rings until voicemail.

“Call me,” I say, turning away from Misha. I don't say that I’m stuck in a fortress with men outside every door.

No reply comes while we finish breakfast.

At eleven, I call the hospital again. A different nurse answers, and her voice turns cautious when I ask for Marina.

“She hasn’t come in,” the nurse says, lowering her voice. “Her shift started at seven.”

“Did she call out?”

“Not that I know of.”

I look through the glass toward Alexei’s office. His door remains closed.

“Check with staffing and call me back,” I say, gripping the phone harder. “Also ask security whether she sent any message.”

The nurse pauses. “Is something wrong?”

“I don’t know yet.”

Misha tugs my sweater and holds up a wooden block. “Mama, bridge.”

I end the call, sit on the rug, and build one.

By noon, our bridge has spread into a city built from blocks and half the kitchenette. Misha turns teaspoons into race cars, plastic forks into tow trucks, and two small plates into parking garages that somehow move whenever traffic gets bad. He parks one spoon at every entrance, then stands with his hands clasped behind his back while he studies the mess.

“This city has many cars,” he says.

Lidiya gives him a fond smile while Mrs. Wentworth, apparently unable to bear such cutlery lawlessness, leaves us to it with wounded dignity.

I look at the empty cutlery tray. “What are we supposed to eat lunch with?”

He points to a spoon parked beneath the table. “You can use that one after the race.”

The pose belongs to Alexei.

I knock one plate over before the thought can settle.

Misha frowns. “That was the hospital.”

“Bad construction,” I say, rebuilding his hospital with both hands.

Footsteps sound in the corridor, followed by a child laughing and Mrs. Wentworth giving someone instructions about wet boots.

When Elena and Cara arrive, neither woman comes dressed for a formal visit. Elena wears flat boots and has baby cereal on one sleeve, while Cara carries a tote stuffed with wipes, crackers, and a toy dinosaur. Their ordinary mess makes them harder to dismiss than polished sympathy would have been.

Cara enters first with a dark-haired boy racing beside her. Mikhail is older than Misha by about a year, broad-shouldered for his age, and carrying two toy trucks under one arm. Elena follows with a sleeping toddler on her hip. Lev’s round cheek rests against her coat.

Sergei, the young family-wing guard, follows them, carrying a diaper bag, two small jackets, and the resigned expression of a man who lost an argument before breakfast.

Mikhail spots the block city and drops to his knees. “Can I break it?”

Misha shields the nearest tower with both arms. “No.”