How frightened I was!!!

  I jerked awake, my heart pounding somewhere up in my throat.

  It turned out I had fallen asleep from sheer exhaustion.

  I looked around—and immediately understood: it was Phil screaming.

  He was standing by the couch in my pink robe, waving his arms and shouting at the top of his lungs. The smile was gone from his face. His features were twisted with fear, his voice breaking.

  And strangely—I wasn't afraid.

  I felt sorry for him.

  "Phil," I said.

  He didn't hear me.

  "Phil!" I called louder.

  Then again.

  And again.

  Only around the fifth time did he finally look at me.

  His eyes were full of tears.

  "Oh God, Phil..." I whispered and stepped closer. "Are you in pain? Does something hurt?"

  He was breathing heavily, raggedly, as if after a long run.

  His hands were still shaking.

  "Phil," I said.

  He didn't answer.

  I came closer.

  "Can you hear me?"

  He blinked. Slowly.

  Suddenly I noticed that the room had grown warmer. Not from the heating—I hadn't turned it on yet—but as if the air itself had thickened, become viscous. I ran my hand over my forearm: my skin was dry and cold. Which meant the warmth wasn't real.

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  I crouched down beside him.

  "We're home. That's it. We left that place."

  Phil nodded.

  "There..." I began, then stopped. The words refused to assemble into sentences.

  Phil suddenly looked at me. For the first time—directly.

  "You saw it?" he asked.

  The voice was his. Ordinary. Slightly hoarse.

  "What?" I asked.

  "That apartment," he said. "Above the staircase."

  Something inside me clenched.

  "Yes."

  He nodded again.

  "Good."

  And turned away.

  I stood up and went to the kitchen—not because I wanted to eat or drink, but because I needed to move. If you stop, fear catches up faster. I poured water into a glass, then poured it out into the sink, then filled it again. The water ran unevenly. In spurts. I remembered the technician. The pipes. The part.

  We never bought it, I thought.

  I went back into the room.

  Phil was standing by the window.

  "You need to sleep," I said. "You're exhausted."

  "I'm not tired," he replied calmly. "I'm just not here."

  He said it without intonation. Like a fact.

  I moved closer to him quietly.

  "What do you mean? Where are you?"

  He thought. Truly. For a long time.

  "Where they're holding me," he finally said. "But not all of me."

  I felt cold.

  "Who?" I asked.

  Phil didn't answer right away.

  He kept staring out the window, as if something larger than the yard and the night branches was reflected in the dark glass.

  "He... I have to help. He said I can. He's miserable. He's suffering so much. He can barely do anything anymore. He's almost out of strength..."

  The words were spoken calmly. Too calmly.

  I felt everything inside me tighten.

  "Who said that? That man? From the market? Who is suffering? I don't understand anything. This is nonsense. When we were in that apartment, Phil was happily listening to that strange man while he rummaged through his wallet. I caught bits of what he was saying—just a couple of phrases about the banknote, and then Phil told him we were going to buy a part, and that man was suggesting which row at the market sold things like that. I didn't hear anything from him like what Phil is saying now."

  Phil nodded slowly.

  "He's not a man," he added after a pause. "That's just how he looks."

  I stepped closer.

  "Phil... we left. Do you understand? I took you away. We're home."

  He turned his head and looked at me. His gaze was clear. Almost sober. Phil scratched his stomach and smiled his usual smile.

  "That was you who left," he said. "I didn't."

  It felt like a blow to my chest.

  "How can that be—you didn't?"

  He shrugged.

  "He holds the thread. Not the one you pull. The one that pulls by itself."

  I didn't immediately understand the meaning of his words. And perhaps I didn't want to.

  At that moment I heard a sound.

  Quiet.

  Almost imperceptible.

  From deep inside the house.

  I froze.

  "Did you hear that?"

  Phil didn't answer. His gaze drifted back to the window.

  The sound repeated.

  Drip.

  Pause.

  Another drip.

  Water.

  I slowly walked toward the bathroom. Each step echoed somewhere in my chest, as if the floor had gone hollow. The light was off. I flipped the switch.

  The faucet was closed.

  The sink was dry.

  But the sound was coming from inside the wall.

  I pressed my palm against the tile.

  It was warm.

  I yanked my hand away.

  When I returned to the room, Phil was no longer by the window. He was staring at the front door. Straight ahead. Motionless.

  "They know where you live," he said.

  "No," I replied too quickly. "They don't."

  Phil slowly turned his head.

  Looked at me as if I had said something very human. And very inaccurate.

  "They don't know the address," he said. "They know the quality."

  "What quality?" I asked.

  He looked at his palms, as if checking whether they were still there.

  "Care," he said. "Patience. The ability to wait until something sprouts."

  I said nothing.

  I felt something shift inside me. He was delirious. I touched his forehead—it was cold and dry.

  "Phil..." I said.

  "I think you need to lie down."

  Phil stayed the night.

  He didn't say it outright—he simply didn't leave. It was late, and walking across the street in the dark probably didn't appeal to him. Or he didn't want to leave me alone. I made up the couch for him, gave him a blanket. We barely spoke. Words didn't hold well that evening—as if too many of them might shift something again.

  I went to my room.

  Closed the door, but not the lock.

  Perhaps he was afraid.

  Or perhaps he was afraid not for himself.