I realize I’ve driven to my grandmother’s house only when the tires bump against the curb. I blink out of the memory and, for a moment, I consider putting the car in reverse, returning to the office. At least, up there, there are spreadsheets and acquisition plans—things that make sense.
Here is only more confusion.
I don’t leave, though. I kill the engine. Maybe this is what I need to clear my head.
The familiar scent of dill and garlic greets me before my babushka does. She must be cooking. I hear her mumbling something to herself before she opens the door.
“What brings you here on a Tuesday?” Babushka asks, eyebrow raised in a way that reminds me, uncomfortably, of myself.
On second thought, this was a bad idea.
“Security check.” It’s bullshit, and we both know it.
“I don’t see w
