27
Yulia
The second the door closes behind the doctor, I scoot closer to the edge of the bed, making sure the blanket covers my chest. My head pounds with the movement, but I say, “Mishen’ka—”
“It’s Mikhail—or Michael, since you’re so fond of the English language,” my brother snaps, his light-colored eyebrows drawing together in a ferocious frown. “I’m not a child.”
“No, I can see that.” Ignoring the throbbing in my temples, I study his features, noticing the changes brought about by adolescence. At fourteen, he’s already begun the transition into manhood, his face leaner and harder than I recall seeing in pictures as recent as from a few months ago.
Suppressing an irrational urge to cry, I begin again. “Michael”—the formal American version of his name feels foreign on my tongue—“I wa
