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“Yes.”

I leave before Irina can follow. The corridor is bright and cold. Galina’s near the chairs. Sergei is by the wall with his phone in his hand.

Elara is not there. The chair beside Galina is empty.

“Where is she?” I ask.

Sergei looks toward the lift. “She was here a minute ago.”

Galina stands. “She spoke to Sergei, then walked that way. I thought she needed air.”

“I don’t think she left the building,” Sergei says.

“You don’t think?” I say.

Sergei falls silent.

I look over every face because she could be anywhere in this building, and for the first time since Anya opened her eyes, I feel panic trying to get past my ribs.

Sergei steps toward me. “I can check the exits.”

“Do it.”

He moves away, but I don’t wait for him.

I check the waiting area first. Then the corridor near imaging, the small family room, the chairs beside the window. She is not there. I call her again as I walk, and again it goes to voicemail.

I stop near the lift, look at the numbers above the doors, then turn away before they open.

She would not leave Anya. Not unless I made her feel she had to. And I did exactly that, didn’t I?

I take the stairs down one floor, then come out near the main lobby. The hospital is busier here, full of people entering and leaving, pharmacy bags in their hands, relatives speaking too loudly into phones.

Then I see her finally.

The gift shop is across from the pharmacy. I see her through the window.

She’s standing beside a shelf of stuffed animals, holding a small white rabbit by one ear. The sight of her stops me. I had been ready to search the car park, the street, anywhere she might have gone. Instead, she is here, turning the rabbit over to read the tag.

I go inside. The bell above the door rings, and she looks up.

For a moment, relief crosses her face. Then she remembers what happened outside Anya’s room and looks down at the rabbit.

“I called you,” I say.

“My phone’s on silent.”

I glance at the rabbit. “For Anya?”

“She likes rabbits.” She turns the toy over, checking the tag. “I thought she might want something to hold.”

Then she looks up at me and asks, “How is she?”

“Awake. They stitched the cut and are keeping her here for observation.”

“Does she remember what happened?”

“No.”