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Except I’m not alone.

Diana sits hunched in one of the lounge chairs, illuminated by the soft blue glow of the pool lights. Her normally perfect posture is collapsed, shoulders curved inward like a wounded animal. An unmistakable cloud of marijuana smoke hangs around her, the acrid sweetness cutting through the chlorine scent of the pool.

I hesitate, unsure whether to retreat or approach. Diana and I have developed a cautious friendship since Polina’s birth— united by our mutual love for the baby, if nothing else. But I’ve never seen her like this: designer silk pajamas rumpled, hair escaping its usually immaculate bun, eyes puffy and unfocused.

Before I can decide, she looks up, noticing me. Something in her expression— raw vulnerability, perhaps— draws me forward.

“Mind if I join you?” I ask softly.

She gestures vaguely to the chair beside her, neither welcoming nor dismissing me. The small table between us holds evidence of her evening: rolling papers, a half-emptybottle of expensive vodka, several partially smoked joints. Her fingers tremble slightly as she reaches for one, relighting it with fumbling movements.

I sit carefully, giving her space while making my presence available. The silence stretches between us, broken only by the gentle lapping of water against the pool’s edge and Diana’s occasional exhale of smoke.

“Have you heard from Aleksei?” I finally ask. He’s been gone for three days now— a sudden business trip to Europe, according to the brief explanation he left. No calls. No messages. Just absence.

Diana doesn’t answer. Instead, she reaches for her phone, unlocks it with trembling fingers, and wordlessly holds the screen toward me.

A single text message glows in the darkness:

“I’m with Mama in Vostok.”

I read it twice, confusion settling like a stone in my stomach. “Vostok? With…‘Mama?’”

Diana takes a long drag from her joint, the ember glowing bright orange in the dimness. When she speaks, her voice is rougher than usual, her Russian accent more pronounced.

“Vostok Institute for Mental Health and Rehabilitation.” She pronounces each word with bitter precision. “The worst place on earth.”

“A hospital?” I ask, still not comprehending.

“A prison disguised as a hospital.” She exhales a plume of smoke toward the star-scattered sky. “In Soviet times, they sent dissidents there. Political prisoners labeled as mentally ill. Nowit’s… something else. Still terrible. Still a place where people disappear.”

The chill in the air seems to deepen. “And… with‘Mama’? I thought she was—”

“We thought both of our parents had been dead for a long time.” Diana’s laugh holds no humor. “Apparently, we were wrong.”

“Both?” The word escapes before I can stop it.

Diana’s gaze shifts to mine, slightly unfocused from the marijuana but still penetrating. “Our father is in the guest room of the Left Wing. Dying of cancer. He told us our mother is kept in Vostok.”

The revelation leaves me reeling. In all our time together, Aleksei has barely mentioned his parents— only that his father was abusive and his mother disappeared. I assumed, as Diana did, that both were long dead.

“I don’t understand,” I say again, though fragments are beginning to connect. Aleksei’s sudden departure. Diana’s distress. The text message that seems to have shattered her composure.

“Neither do I.” She offers me the joint. When I shake my head, she takes another deep drag. “Twenty years believingMamawas dead. Twenty years hatingPapafor killing her. And now…” Her voice breaks. “Now she’s alive in that horrible place, and he’s dying in our guest room.”

My mouth falls open, not knowing what to say. What comfort can I possibly offer for this revelation? Probably nothing. Instead, I move to sit beside her on the lounge chair, placing a gentle arm around her shoulders. She stiffensmomentarily, then leans into me, her body shaking with silent sobs.

We sit like this for several minutes, the pool lights casting rippling patterns across our faces. Diana’s tears gradually subside, replaced by the loose-limbed heaviness that comes with emotional exhaustion and weed.

“You know what’s funny?” she says finally, her words slightly slurred. “Lyosha— Aleksei— he always protected me. Even when we were children. Even whenPapa…” She trails off, reaching for another joint.

I watch her light it, the flame briefly illuminating her tear-streaked face. “He mentioned your father was abusive,” I say carefully.

Diana’s laugh is hollow. “Abusive. Such a clinical word for what he was.” She inhales deeply, holding the smoke in her lungs before releasing it in a slow stream. “I remember once, I was eight. Papa came home drunk— he was always drunk— and started throwing things. A vodka bottle shattered against the wall. Lyosha pushed me under the bed and covered me with his body.”

She draws a pattern on her silk-covered thigh, eyes distant with memory. “I can still feel him trembling against me. This skinny little boy, trying so hard to be brave. To protect me. He took the beating meant for both of us.”

The image forms vividly in my mind: two small children huddled together, one shielding the other from violence neither deserved. The ruthless man who ordered my parents’ murder— he was once just a little boy, protecting his twin sister.