Masha lies on the floor, her forehead buried in a gray blanket. She clung to it with both hands, and the streaks of fabric folds between her fingers were like scratches.

He walks me next to her. The smell of blood hits the nose. Her tibia is cut. A torn wound swells like a red mess over the black fabric of tights.

"That's not me," he chuckles, and makes me stop right on top of her. - Masha tried to escape, can you imagine? Got hurt, you fool.

He squats down. Pushes the thumb straight in. Squeezing blood from the wound like peas from a pod. I close my eyes....