Page 98

“Information.”

“About what?”

I look at Misha. “Him.”

She folds her arms.

I write his full name at the top of the first page, followed by his birthday.

March seventeenth.

The date looks small on paper. It contains a delivery room, a first breath, and three years I can’t enter.

“Medical history,” I say, pulling a chair.

Vera stays on her feet. “No known food or drug allergies. Mosquito bites swell badly, strong soap dries his skin, and he’s had wheezing twice after viral infections, so I keep an inhaler.” Her mouth tightens. “You already have all this, Alexei. Your staff collected it.”

I write down every word. “I need it for myself. How does he sleep?”

She stares at me for a moment, then gives up and sits across from me.

“He goes to sleep around nine if I’m home.”

“If you aren’t?”

“He waits.”

“Until when?”

“Until I return or he can’t stay awake any longer.”

I look up. “That’s unacceptable.”

“So is emergency surgery at midnight, but patients rarely check Misha’s bedtime before getting injured.”

Misha climbs onto the couch with his car. “Sleep attacks from behind.”

Vera points at him. “That.”

I write, Sleep attacks from behind.

She presses her lips together to hide a smile.

“Does he nap?” I ask.

“No nap,” Misha says.

“He rests after lunch,” Vera corrects.

“With eyes open,” Misha adds.

“Sometimes.” Vera widens her eyes at him in warning.

I write, Claims resting doesn’t require closed eyes.

Vera leans over the notebook. “Are you making fun of him?”

“No.”