“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean to go far. The kitten ran near the street, and I thought it would get hurt, and then when I turned back—”
The tall man dropped to one knee.
Right there on my old cracked tile floor.
Misha stopped talking.
For a moment, father and son simply looked at each other.
Then the man reached out and pulled him close.
Misha held himself stiffly at first, still clutching the bag, but then his face crumpled and he buried it against his father’s shoulder. His small fingers gripped the expensive black coat as if it were the only solid thing left in the world.
“I couldn’t find Nina,” Misha whispered.
“I know,” his father said.
“I tried to remember what you told me.”
“You did well.”
“I got wet.”
“I can see that.”
