Mikhail glanced at the empty plate in front of Misha. The last smear of gravy, the crumbs from the roll, the fork resting in a streak of pie filling.
“You gave him a meal.”
“Yes.”
“And you asked nothing from him.”
“He’s eight.”
“Nine,” Misha corrected softly.
I looked down at him. “Nine. Sorry.”
He gave me the smallest smile.
Mikhail noticed. His hand tightened gently on his son’s shoulder.
“My son was missing for almost two hours,” he said. “We had people searching every street between the mall and here.”
The two men by the door shifted slightly at the word people.
I swallowed.
“I was going to call,” I said. “Once he was warm and calm enough to tell me who to call.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
“Misha told me enough.”
I looked at the boy.
He lowered his eyes. “I said you were kind.”
Those four words did something strange to the room. They turned the fear into something softer, though not exactly safer.
Mikhail reached into his coat.
Every muscle in Ray’s body went rigid.
But Mikhail only took out a leather wallet.
“No,” I said before he could open it.
His eyes lifted to mine.
“No?”
“I’m not taking money for feeding a lost child.”
His face did not change. “You do not know how much I intended to give you.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
Ray dropped the rag.
“Anna,” he said, in the warning tone of a man watching someone throw a rope back to a lifeboat.
I kept my eyes on Mikhail. “A child came into my diner soaked and hungry. I fed him. That’s not a transaction.”
Mikhail studied me in silence.
