— he yelled in a cracked voice, looming over her.
— I, I… — was all the terrified girl could stammer as she struggled to her feet.
The man frantically patted his coat pockets, pulled out his wallet, and glanced inside it hurriedly.
— No cash! — he said, rushing his words. — Listen, I don’t have time, I’m not going to an ATM, I’m late. Here, take my business card, it has my address. Come by tomorrow, and I’ll pay for everything.
He held out a glossy rectangle with gold embossing, but Shura just scowled and refused to take the card.
— I don’t have a phone, — she began plaintively, her voice trembling with rising tears. — My grandma will kill me if I come home empty-handed. You’ve ruined everything, smashed it all.
The man froze for a moment, gazing at her eyes, swollen from crying, and her face, wrapped in several old shawls. For an instant, he seemed to be hesitating, but then, having made a desperate decision, he grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her toward the car.
— Get in, quickly! I don’t have time to stand around here with you.
He practically bundled her into the car. Jumping behind the wheel, he turned around:
— What’s your name, ragamuffin? So at least I know what to call you.
— Shura, — she replied in a trembling voice, swept up in his rush, and sank into the soft seatback.
— Sit still and don’t touch anything. We’ll decide what to do with you when we arrive.
He slammed on the gas. Shura heard the old stool crunch under the heavy wheel. The car shot from its spot and exited the parking lot. They sped down the highway, weaving through traffic, while Shura sat looking around like a frightened animal, afraid to move a muscle.
Soon, they turned off the highway and, after driving for a while longer, ended up in front of a metal fence. The man cut the engine, jumped out, and yelled:
— Keep up!
They practically ran into the spacious foyer of a large, modern house, where it was warm and smelled of something delicious and homemade. A worried elderly woman in a neat apron, evidently the housekeeper, ran out to meet them. Her face was etched with extreme fright.
— Kirill Borisovich, thank goodness you’re here, — she began, stumbling over her words. — Lizonka is doing very poorly.
The man, without taking off his coat, rushed up the wooden-stepped staircase. Shura, who had been ordered to keep up, dutifully followed him.
In the children’s room, filled with toys, a girl of about ten lay on the bed. She was as pale as a sheet, and her lips had a bluish tint. A young caregiver was kneeling beside her, wiping the girl’s face with a damp cloth with trembling hands. Several open vials stood on the nightstand.
— I don’t know how it happened, — the caregiver turned to the people who had rushed into the room.
— What did you give her?
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