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I didn’t move, and I didn’t breathe. Somewhere in my chest a very small, very stupid voice said, if I just stay quiet, he’ll think I’m asleep, and he’ll go away. I’ve had that thought exactly twice in my life, once as a child, when a monster was in my closet, and now.

The monster took a long time to leave.

When I finally heard him lie down on the daybed, with the corners of the blanket rustling and the small tick of a man settling onto a mattress that was too short for him, I opened one eye a slit. He was on his back with his hands folded on his chest, looking at the ceiling like someone posing for a funeral. His eyes were open and gray, and they were not red.

He wasn’t sleeping. He didn’t blink, and I watched for a full minute to be sure.

At some point after three, I fell asleep in spite of myself.

At some point after that, I dreamed about pizza.

I woke at ten the next morning with the sun in my face and a sore neck, and the first thing I did was check whether I still had one.

The daybed was empty and made, with the corners tucked. On the pillow lay a folded slip of paper, and on it, in handwriting so neat it looked typeset:

Game 3 is not for twelve days. The committee has a sponsor tour and an ice-resurfacing. We will need to speak. I will find you tonight. Please do not do anything foolish. —M.V.

I read it four times.

Then I did something foolish.

I called Jason.

“Reyes,” he answered, thick with sleep. “Whoever this is, I hope somebody’s dead.”

“It’s me. Where are you?”

“Bed. It’s ten a.m. You have a lot of energy for a man who lost.”

“I need you to come to my room. Bring coffee. Bring a lot of coffee. And don’t tell anyone.”

“Is this a booty call?”

“Jason.”

“Is it a fight? You need a witness for the fight? Because I’m not going to lie to you, I’d like to see the Russian fight.” A sound of blankets. “Give me twenty. I’m bringing donuts.”

I was three-quarters through my first cup of coffee, and pacing, and drafting a speech about how I could no longer share a room with the person I had accidentally stalked, when the door opened again.

I turned, ready to ask Jason what took so long.

It wasn’t Jason.

It was Maksim, in a fresh black sweater, with a paper bag from the bakery in one hand.

“I bought bread,” he said.

I stared at him.

He stared at me. Then, slowly, as if he weren’t quite sure it was allowed, he put the bag on the desk.

“You have not eaten,” he said. “You slept until ten. It is—” a pause, as if checking his English “—not good for a man to fast after such a night.”

“You bought me bread.”

“Yes.”

“You. Bought me. Bread. “