“Sankya…” Grandma exhaled when Sasha, his teeth clenched to stop himself from turning around and running away through the vegetable patch, finally took a step forward, threw his bag to the ground, and stretched his arms towards her. “How did you get here, eh?” she asked. “By car, I suppose? All by yourself?”
Sasha answered in the affirmative — yes, all alone, yes, by car — as he peered into her darkened, round face, her watery eyes.
“Just the other day, I thought, how can Sankya not visit?’ she said, and Sasha felt a feeble reproach in her voice. “He doesn’t write. Grandpa will pass away, and Sankya won’t know…”
She pronounced this “pass away” with a soft drawl, which made it sound defense less and doomed. Her words were dull and withering.
The child looked up at them, puzzled, when Sa
