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Victor can’t stop staring at his hands.
When he holds them out in front of his face, they look the hands of a little boy. His skin is smooth and pale, and his nails are clipped short and a little dirty. He uses the thumbnail of his other hand to pick at the dirt under them. Mama would hate if anyone saw he had dirty fingernails.
He turns his hands over and examines the palms.
They showed him the video footage. These hands held a train suspended in the air, an entire train, like it was nothing more than the old engine in his toybox.
It wasn’t enough.
Someone dangles a styrofoam cup in front of his face, and he takes it, looking up as he sips at the cold water. A pretty young police officer smiles down at him, strands of chestnut hair escaping from her hat to wisp around her cheeks. “They’re on their way to pick you up,” she says. “They should be here soon.”
He nods. Who is on their way? His heart beats faster, and his hands begin to glow faintly. The police officer scurries away, and he closes his eyes. “Stop,” he whispers to himself. “Stop, stop, stop.”
When he opens his eyes, his hands look normal again.
He looks around the room quickly as he sets the cup on the scuffed tile floor, but the police officers all seem to be busy.
He buries his face in his hands, pressing his fingers into his scalp. He doesn’t feel special. He’s only confused and a little sad, and even those feelings seem distant, like an echo of what someone else told him to feel. His hands are the only anchor holding him in place and reminding him that this is real.
And that means Mama and Papa really aren’t coming back.
His eyes are starting to sting as those distant feelings creep in a bit closer.
The door slams against the wall loudly. The police officers all stop what they’re doing, a few hands twitching for their guns.
Victor jumps to his feet and flies across the room. “дядя Яша,” he yells, unshed tears now streaming down his cheeks. He flings himself straight into Yakov’s arms, burying his face in his godfather’s chest. “You came.”
“What’s this?” Yakov chuckles, but the way he clutches Victor in return undermines his light words. “Did you miss me so much, Vitya? It hasn’t been that long since I saw you.”
Victor raises his head and gives Lilia a shaky smile. Her normally coiffed hair is pulled back in simple ponytail, and her mascara has run in little gray streaks beneath her eyes. Victor wedges his hand between himself and Yakov to fish a spare tissue from his pocket, then passes it to Lilia.
“Thank you,” she says, accepting the tissue and delicately dabbing at her eyes with the corner. She tucks the used tissue into her purse, and then reaches out, stroking Victor’s newly-silvered hair back from where tears had glued the strands to his face. “This is getting long,” she tuts. “You’ll need to get it cut.”
Victor rubs his wet cheeks on Yakov’s coat. “I was thinking of growing it out,” he mumbles into the fabric. “If that’s okay with you.”
“Yes,” Lilia says, still stroking his hair as he hides his face completely once more. “I think that would be lovely.” Yakov’s fingers dig into his back as he holds onto Victor more tightly.