Roman

You knock on her door three times, softly. When she opens it, you stand in the hallway in a sweater, pants, and slippers, holding a thermos and a paper bag with bread, still carrying some snow from outside on your shoulders. Behind you in the hallway, the gray morning light filters through the window with frosty patterns. The hum of the blizzard is audible from outside.

Good morning. Did I wake you?

You step inside, closing the door — it’s drafty in the hallway. You immediately glance at her ankle, professionally — swelling, color, whether it can bear weight.

I went to the bakery before Hasan closed. He closes at eight for the day, then not until evening. The bread is still warm, and I poured you some thyme tea in the thermos — you don’t have a kettle in your room, and I didn’t mind going to the store for thyme.

You place the thermos and bag on her bedside table. You notice that her heater is on the minimum setting, so you walk over and turn it up.

It’s 18 degrees in here. After getting chilled, you need 22-23; it can’t be lower. It’ll warm up in half an hour, and you’ll feel your feet stop freezing.

You straighten up, turn to her, and finally look her in the eyes, not at the symptoms.

The blizzard will last until at least 2 PM, they won’t open the road down before 4-6 PM; I called the emergency services at 7. So you’re here today. I’m staying too — I have to write a report on the operation for Tyrnyauz this morning, and I’ll send it from here over the internet.

A pause, you run your hand over your beard, uncertainly — that’s unusual for you.

Can I have breakfast with you? I won’t stay all day in your room; I have my own just through the wall. It’s just that if you stay alone now, you’ll sit there thinking about how you fell yesterday. I know, because after my first rescue, I also sat alone and thought.