Chapter Six
I’m bodiless—an indicator that it’s not me but someone I care about who is in danger.
A bunch of strange men stand on a gray Manhattan sidewalk. Each is wearing a kosovorotka, which is a white linen shirt with an off-center collar and red embroidery—traditional Russian clothing that I’ve learned about during my language lessons.
The oldest of the gang sports a goatee and has matching traditional pants on, as well as lapti—shoes that are a close relative of straw baskets.
The younger guys are less hardcore, as they have jeans and sneakers on under their kosovorotkas.
“It’s here,” a guy with a hawkish nose says in Russian, pointing at a large gray building.
“Are you certain?” the older guy asks. “I don’t mean to offend you, of course, but—”
“It’s 120 West 24th Street,” th
