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“Did it hurt?”

“Yes.”

“Did you cry?”

“No.”

He gives me a doubtful look. “Mama says people can cry.”

“Your mother is correct.”

“Then maybe you cried inside.” Misha pats the center of his pajama shirt.

A laugh pushes out before I can stop it. Misha’s face opens. He copies the sound, then rubs his jaw again because I did it earlier.

The missed calls wait on my phone. I forget them.

Misha builds a garage on the rug from two leather document boxes, a folded blanket, and the empty breakfast tray beside the chair. We line up a jeep, a tractor, a dump truck, a school bus, a taxi, and the battered yellow racer beneath the blanket roof.

“The taxi can’t sleep there,” he says, pushing it toward my knee. “It works at night.”

An admirable work ethic. “You’re right,” I say.

“The dumper is loud.” He parks it at the far end. “It wakes babies.”

“Then it belongs near Maksim.”

Misha studies me, unsure whether that is a joke, then decides it is and smiles.

He drags paper from my desk and kneels beside the low table. We draw a whale, a shark wearing a doctor’s coat, and three soldiers who look like potatoes with rifles.

“This is Doctor Shark,” Misha says, adding four teeth outside the mouth. “He fixes fish.”

“His patients look troubled.”

“He only bites bad ones.”

Reasonable policy. “That’s good.”

Misha talks until his voice turns rough. I pour water into a short glass and hold it out.

“Drink.”

He takes it in both hands, swallows three mouthfuls, and leaves a small print along the rim before putting it beside my phone.

His attention shifts to the red strips running along the base of the wall.

“Those?”

“Those,” I say. “If they ever light up, take this car, find a small place, and stay quiet.” I tap the roof above the yellow car.

“Like a hideaway?”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to teach you a clever code.”

Misha looks up at me.