— It’s half of what I’ve saved for my niece’s operation, — Anna looked out the window at the blurry lights. — My niece Katya, she’s ten. She has a problem with her leg from a birth injury. She needs an operation, it costs two hundred thousand. I’ve been saving for almost a year. And now?
She didn’t finish. The man was silent, just nodding to show he was listening. And Anna continued. She told him about Katya, about her sister Sveta who died two years ago and left the girl in her care. About how Katya endures the pain but never complains. About how scary it is to watch a child unable to run properly with her peers. About the injustice of today, about Irina, who had disliked her from her first day of work.
The driver listened in silence, just nodding occasionally. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t offer advice, didn’t say platitudes like “everything will be okay.” He just listened. And that was exactly what Anna needed right now: for someone to just listen.
The car stopped in front of a leaning nine-story building on Zavodskaya Street. Anna fell silent, suddenly realizing how much she had told a complete stranger.
— I’m sorry, — she muttered, reaching for her wallet. — I’ve burdened you with my problems. How much do I owe you?
— Nothing, — the driver shook his head. — The ride is paid for.
— But…
— Get well soon, — he nodded at her bandaged hand. — And… hang in there.
Anna got out of the car. The Toyota drove off, disappearing into the evening traffic. She watched it go, then trudged towards her building entrance. The phone in her jacket pocket rang—it must have charged a little from the power bank she carried with her. It was Marina.
— Anya, where are you? I called you a taxi, but the driver says you’re not at the clinic. Have you already left?
Anna stopped in the middle of the courtyard. So, the man in the Toyota wasn’t a taxi driver. Just a stranger who decided to give her a ride. And she had dumped her whole life story on him.
The next morning, Anna woke up to Katya gently touching her bandaged hand.
— Auntie Anya, does it hurt? — the girl looked at her with wide-open brown eyes, just like Sveta’s.
— A little, sunshine, — Anna sat up in bed, wincing.
Her hand really did hurt: the bandage had soaked through with fluid overnight, and the wound was inflamed.
— It’s nothing serious, just a scratch from work.
Katya frowned, looking maturely skeptical.
— You were crying yesterday. I heard you.
Anna hugged her niece with her good arm, pulling her close. A thin little body, hair smelling of baby shampoo. For this child, she was ready to endure any injustice, any pain.
— I was just very tired. It happens with adults. Shall we have breakfast?
They had leftover buckwheat with a sausage from yesterday for breakfast. Katya ate slowly, limping to the table—her leg was clearly hurting more than usual. Anna watched her and felt everything inside her tighten. She had to do something about the money, and quickly.
After breakfast, she took Katya to Aunt Valya on the first floor: the neighbor looked after the girl while Anna was at work, and charged very little for it. Then she trudged to the bus stop. She didn’t want to go to the clinic, but she had to sort out this fine, to try and change the situation somehow.
The bus was late. Anna was standing at the bus stop, huddling in her thin jacket, when the familiar dark blue Toyota pulled up to the curb.
— Good morning, — the driver, the same man from yesterday in the simple jacket, smiled at her warmly. — Heading to work?
Anna was flustered.
— You? But you’re not a taxi driver?
— I never said I was, — he shrugged. — I just saw yesterday that you were upset and decided to give you a ride. My name is Dmitry. Get in, I’m heading your way anyway.
Common sense told her to refuse: you shouldn’t get into a car with strangers. But something about this man inspired trust. Kind eyes, a calm voice, a complete lack of pushiness. Yesterday he had listened to her whole story and hadn’t said a single unnecessary word.
— Okay, — Anna opened the door. — Thank you.
They drove in silence for the first five minutes. Dmitry didn’t ask questions, didn’t try to make small talk. He just drove, occasionally glancing in the rearview mirror. Quiet music played on the radio.
— Did you treat your hand? — he finally asked.
— Yes, at home, — Anna looked at her bandaged palm. — Washed it with peroxide, put some ointment on it.
— You should see a doctor. There might be shards left in it.
— No time, — she chuckled. — And no extra money.
Dmitry nodded but said nothing. He stopped the car at the clinic’s service entrance.
— Thank you, — Anna reached for the door handle, but he stopped her.
— Listen, — Dmitry turned to her, — if you need anything, here’s my card.
He handed her a small white card. Anna took it mechanically. “Dmitry Solovyov,” it read, and a phone number. No job title, no company name.
— Why are you doing this? — she asked. — You don’t know me at all.
— Because, — Dmitry smiled, — sometimes people just need help. For no reason.
Anna got out of the car, clutching the business card in her fist. The Toyota drove away. She stood for a long time, watching it go.
At the clinic, the day started badly. In the accounting department, they handed her papers to sign—consent for the deduction of forty-eight thousand from her salary in equal parts over two months. Twenty-four thousand this month, twenty-four the next. That left less than ten thousand to live on. How could she feed herself and Katya, pay for rent, and medicine on that?
Anna signed with a trembling hand. There was no choice.
She worked all day as if in a fog. Mopping floors, cleaning rooms, taking out the trash. Colleagues whispered behind her back: the news about the broken machine had spread throughout the clinic. Some sympathized, others shook their heads disapprovingly.
Irina walked past several times with a haughty look. Once she even stopped, looking at Anna mopping the floor in the hallway.
— Well, Petrova, learned to be careful yet?
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