It’s not until he bends down that I finally realize something is wrong. Kolya’s shirt is ripped in half a dozen places. There’s blood caked over his face and streaked down his neck. His fingers are drenched in more of the same.
I try to ask what happened, but my lips won’t form the words. I get the feeling he wouldn’t answer anyway.
My vision is half blue and half black now. I feel myself being lifted into the air. For one crazy, delusional moment, I wonder if I’m dancing again.
Then I realize that the smell of blood has been replaced by the smell of vanilla.
Everything that follows happens in jarring fits and spurts, like a film reel that someone has taken half the frames out of. He’s moving so fast through the house that I barely register the pain radiating up my leg and deep into my
