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She does.

I try to sit a little straighter and instantly see several new stars.

Kirill reaches for my shoulder. “Slowly,” he says.

“I’m being slow,” I tell him.

“You're trying to stand,” Kirill says.

“Different issue,” I say.

Anya sniffles hard.

I focus on her. “You listen to me,” I say. “This is not your fault.”

She rubs at one cheek. “But you got hit,” Anya argues.

“Yes,” I say. “I noticed.”

Her face crumples again.

“Bad joke,” I add quickly. “Terrible timing. That's on me.”

She stares at me. “Are you going to die?”

Kirill closes his eyes briefly.

“I would strongly prefer not to,” I say.

That earns the smallest, wettest little laugh.

Good. Progress.

The doctor who arrived approximately ninety seconds after Kirill made a phone call crouches beside me again. He’s already checked my pupils, felt carefully along my shoulder, and asked enough questions to establish that I know what year it is, where I am, and who the president is.

My answers apparently satisfy him.

But my jokes don’t.

“You need X-rays,” the doctor says.

“That sounds reasonable,” I say.

“And observation for the head injury,” the doctor adds.

“Still reasonable,” I say.

“We have everything necessary at the residence,” Kirill says.

I look at him.

“The residence,” I repeat.

“Yes,” Kirill says.

I stare at the black SUV waiting several yards away. Two men are standing beside it. Another two are farther down the driveway, talking urgently into their phones while school security closes the gate.

There are already too many men. Too many dark suits. Too many earpieces.