Everyone froze.
Ray leaned over the counter. “Please tell me your expensive paper bag did not just sneeze.”
Misha’s eyes widened.
Mikhail looked at his son.
“Misha.”
The boy hugged the bag closer. “He was wet.”
“Misha.”
“He followed me first.”
“Misha.”
“He has no mother.”
A second tiny sneeze came from the bag.
I pressed my lips together, fighting an inappropriate smile.
Mikhail closed his eyes for one long second, like a man asking the universe for patience and finding the account empty.
“What,” he asked carefully, “is in the bag?”
Misha opened it.
Inside, wrapped in two napkins and part of my clean dish towel, was the smallest gray
