The children’s hospital was a twenty-minute walk away. He got there around eight-thirty that evening, went to the desk, and explained. He wanted to know about the condition of a child.
“Artyom Sokolov, five years old, admitted today.” “Are you family?” the nurse asked. “No.”
“Then we can’t release information. Only to family or legal guardians.” Victor nodded and walked out.
But he didn’t go home. He walked around to the side of the building, found the windows of the cardiology wing, second floor, left side. Lights were on in three of the five windows.
He stood under the wall and turned up the collar of his jacket. Stood there looking at the windows. He didn’t know which one was Artyom’s.
The cold stung his face, snow squeaked under his boots. One hour passed, then another. At eleven, lights went out in two windows.
One stayed lit. Victor looked at that last window for a long time. Then he turned and went home.
Not because he had given up. Because tomorrow he had to go to the registration office and deal with the paperwork. Tonight there was nothing more he could do. He knew that.
And that knowledge burned dull and deep, like heat through a welding glove. He went to the registration office the next morning before work, right when it opened. He explained the situation to the clerk.
No permanent registration, but a lease, and he needed temporary registration at his current address for the court case. The clerk handed him a form and listed the documents. Standard process. Solvable.
The landlord, Gennady Pavlovich, the same quiet retired engineer, listened to Victor over tea that evening. Victor explained plainly. He needed temporary registration for the adoption case.
Gennady Pavlovich looked at him over his glasses for a long moment, then asked, “The boy’s sick?” Victor said, “Yes.”
Gennady Pavlovich set down his mug. “Bring me the papers. I’ll sign.” By December 20 the temporary registration was in place.
Barsukov got a copy, added it to the file, and said they were ready for the January hearing. Artyom was discharged three days before New Year’s.
Marina Sergeyevna called in the afternoon, her voice now free of that tightness. His condition had stabilized, they had brought him back that morning, and he was sleeping. Victor thanked her and went to see him that same evening.
Artyom was lying in bed, blanket pulled up to his chin, paler than usual, but with the same eyes. He looked at Victor without surprise. Then he said quietly:
“You came every day while I was there, didn’t you?” “No,” Victor answered. “You’re lying.”
Victor was quiet. “I came once. They wouldn’t let me in.”
Artyom took that in, then said, “I knew you’d come.” Victor sat beside him, took the horseshoe magnet out of his pocket, the same one he had let the boy hold before, and now simply set it on the bedside table.
“It’s yours,” he said. No further explanation. Artyom picked up the magnet, closed his hand around it, and shut his eyes.
Victor spent New Year’s Eve home alone. Gennady Pavlovich had invited him over. A neighborly invitation, no fuss.
Victor declined, but politely. He sat by the window with a mug of tea and looked out at the street. At midnight somebody in the yard set off firecrackers, a dog barked, lights flashed.
Then it got quiet. He thought about Artyom, about the January hearing, about the fact that Barsukov kept saying they had a chance. Carefully, like a lawyer, without promises.
And about how, for the first time in many years, he was thinking not about the past but about tomorrow. The third hearing was set for January 16, 2007. Same courtroom.
Same judge. Cherepnova across from him in the same dark cardigan. But this time something felt different.
Victor sensed it in the hallway, because Barsukov was looking over his papers with concentration, yes, but not with the heaviness he had carried before. Barsukov spoke confidently. He closed the registration issue.
Documents submitted. He closed the income issue. Eight months of records.
He closed the housing issue. He submitted the detailed work reference and a letter from Marina Sergeyevna. She had written it herself, without being asked, two full pages.
About how Savelly had visited the child regularly for more than six months and had become the boy’s only stable adult. Barsukov read that last phrase aloud. Slowly.
The judge listened and made notes. Cherepnova opened her mouth once. Barsukov answered gently but precisely, with a citation to the statute.
Cherepnova closed her folder. Then the judge paused. Looked at the documents.
Looked up. “This case,” she said slowly, “appears to raise a question of first impression regarding interpretation of the word intentional in the statute.” Another pause.
The court accepts the materials for full review. Next hearing in three weeks. It wasn’t yes, but it wasn’t no.
In the hallway Barsukov squeezed Victor’s hand. “You heard ‘question of first impression.’ The judge is looking at it herself.
That’s a good sign.” Victor walked home instead of taking the bus, though it was cold. He walked slowly, hands in his pockets….
