Time passes. But I’m just as pent-up and frustrated as I was when I first arrived an hour ago. And my thoughts are going in circles the same way I am.
The same old voices in my head, playing on endless loops.
There’s the irritating angel on my shoulder, telling me to leave this woman’s apartment before I bring the storm down on this place.
Gennady, telling me to lie low, away from cops and Albanians and Zotov alike.
Worst of all is the ghost of my father’s angry snarl. He’s been dead for a decade and I can still hear him rasping his unhelpful input on the whole situation. How could you let this happen? If there was insurrection brewing, you should have known about it. You should have killed Zotov before he had the chance to gather forces. Made an example of him.
“Gee, thanks, Father,”
