“Voitec,” the granny said, “take the boy’s jacket.”
“I’m okay.”
The granny shook her head at me. “Give him your jacket.”
And I did. Passive, compliant, I unrolled myself from my coat and handed it to Voitec, who stuffed it into a closet jammed with winterwear.
“His shoes too,” the granny said.
There was no part of that I liked. The granny wore Reeboks, and Voitec wore boots — the heavy steel-toed kind. The granny watched me noticing things.
“Come, follow me. You are safe here.” Her eyes were round, clear, and blue. “I have made fresh babka and I think you will enjoy it. Now, please take off your shoes.”
I took them off but left the openings wide, easy to slip into. She thanked me and took my hand, her grip dainty, papery, and led me to a kitchen. A blonde woman sat at a round, lamin
