Roman appeared in the bedroom doorway at six in the morning. He hadn’t been able to sleep either. He had spent the night making calls, moving mountains: lawyers, doctors, investigators—anyone who could help prove that this boy was indeed Mikhail Tarasov.
“How is he?” Roman whispered. “Sleeping. He finally fell asleep around four. He had nightmares. Woke up screaming twice,” Marina said, her eyes red from crying and lack of sleep. Misha opened his eyes slowly. For a second, he was disoriented.
He looked at the ceiling, the furniture, the walls. Then he remembered. He was home, in his room. “Good morning, champ.” Roman came in and sat on the edge of the bed. “Did you sleep well?”
“Better than in the last six months.” Misha tried to smile, but it hurt. Everything still hurt. “It’s going to be a long day, son, a lot of things to take care of,” Roman explained.
“Dr. Igor will be here soon to examine you. Then we’ll do the DNA test, and after lunch, we need to go to the police to give a statement.” “Okay, Dad, do what you need to do.”
Aunt Masha had prepared a huge breakfast. Pancakes, fruit, juice, sandwiches—everything she could think of. But Misha could only eat a piece of bread with butter. His stomach was too shrunken.
Dr. Igor arrived at exactly nine. He was a man in his sixties, the family doctor for decades. He had overseen every one of Misha’s vaccinations, every cold. When he saw the boy, he turned pale. “My God.”
That’s all he could say. He examined Misha for over an hour, checking every scar, every broken bone, every mark on the thin body. He drew blood for tests, ordered an X-ray of the mangled leg. “They botched the leg.”
“Whoever did this surgery didn’t know what they were doing.” The doctor shook his head in anger. “It can be improved. It won’t be perfect, but we can do other surgeries. Reduce the pain, improve his gait.” “How long?” Roman asked.
“Months, maybe years. It will require intensive rehabilitation, more surgeries. But this boy is strong; he survived what killed 23 children. He’ll get through it.” “Twenty-three.” Roman had always known the number, but hearing it out loud still cut deep.
After the doctor, they went to a private lab for the DNA test. Misha had to give blood again, answer questions, sign papers. The girl at the lab looked at the boy with pity. Everyone looked at him like that: with pity, with curiosity, with disbelief.
“The results will be ready in three days,” she explained. “Can we pay for an express service? It would be ready in 24 hours. Do the express.” Roman didn’t even blink. Money was no object. The only thing that mattered was proving his son had returned.
After lunch, they went to the police station. An old district building that smelled of dampness and cheap coffee. The investigator in charge of the case was a sturdy man with a gray mustache who looked at everything with the air of a man who had seen too much.
Investigator Koval. He introduced himself, shaking Roman’s hand firmly, then looked Misha up and down. “So, you’re saying you’re the boy who died in the accident?” “I didn’t die, I survived,” Misha corrected him in a firm voice.
“Hmm…” The investigator sat down on a squeaky chair and picked up a pen. “Tell me everything from the beginning, and don’t leave anything out.” Misha told the story again. Every detail, every pain, every night on the street….
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