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didn’t respond to them at all, no matter
how hard they shouted or pushed her. They never knew when she was hungry or
when she needed to use the restroom. She had to be spoon-fed and constantly
cleaned up after. Even worse than him, Irina Timofeyevna had said.
    He
looked back to his mother. His mind began to drift again, wondering why she had
never allowed Aunt Lydia to take her own mother in, or him, for that matter.
Irina had absolutely refused and continued to do so, becoming even more
irritable and offended each time Lydia brought it up. She could certainly
afford to – her late husband had left her quite comfortable financially and her
schedule at the theater allowed for a great deal of flexibility. But, Irina
would never give up her invalids, despite her constant complaining about their
needs and the time and energy they took from her. Viktor suspected she did
occasionally take the money that Lydia offered her, although she would never
admit to it. He wondered where her pride stemmed from – her humble upbringing,
her misfortune with various men while her sister had won a kind, gentle,
wealthy man whose only fault had been dying too young. Viktor suspected it was
the pride of the lowly, that he’d read about in some of Tolstoy’s writings.
That and her complete and thorough, stubborn meanness. 
    Irina
cackled, the mirthless laugh sputtering out of her enormous under-bite in a
series of quick, bullfrog croaks. She gestured at the television with the knife
in her hand. “They say there wasn’t any explosion – they promised an explosion.
I bet they don’t have any idea where the damn thing is.” She laughed again. 
    Viktor
stopped straining to try to see the screen and settled back onto his stool. He
eyed the loaf of bread as his stomach grumbled and slowly raised his eyes to
try to catch Tatyana’s glance. But, she was staring at the television too,
still sipping her tea. He didn’t dare say anything – he’d already had one slap
this morning, and when she started early, even the smallest thing could set her
off for the rest of the day. Maybe Tatyana or his mother would bring a
newspaper home in the next few days and he could catch up on all the meteorite
news. Or, if not, he would just have to imagine how it had all happened, as he
did with so many events in life that others simply took for granted. 
    Besides
the occasional trip to the park across the street or an outing with his Aunt
Lydia, which his mother rarely allowed, all of Viktor’s life happened in the
cramped apartment – and inside his head. Because in his imagination, he could
go anywhere, do anything, be anyone he wanted. He could be normal, go to school
with other kids, ride the Metro alone and see all the world around him however
he liked. He knew the imagining of something could never take the place of the
real thing, but that was all he had. It had been that way his entire life. And
he expected that it always would be. 
     
     
     

CHAPTER
FIVE
     
    Svyeta
walked slowly with the throng of people pouring out of Red Square, her
shoulder-length blonde hair swaying gently in the spring wind. The parade on
the grounds in front of the Kremlin and St. Basil’s Cathedral had just ended.
It had been part memorial of some military victory Svyeta couldn’t remember and
part celebration of the coming of the meteorite, or ‘Ilya’ as the news
reporters had been calling it. 
    It
was a beautiful Sunday – a day off from school for twelve-year-old Svyeta and
getting out in the rare sunshine to see the parade had sounded like fun. Plus
it was close by her family’s apartment so it had been relatively easy to get
her six-year-old sister, Zhenya, to go. Their mother was away putting in
overtime again at the hospital and their father was out drinking
who-knows-where. 
    Svyeta
tugged on her sister’s hand as she slipped forward past a clump of slower
moving people. The crowd was starting to thin out as everyone made their way
home, catching