Page 194 of Mafia and Scars

“Schedules help cats. When they know what’s coming next, their minds and bodies feel calmer.”

“Queenie likes her breakfast and dinner at the same time every day,” Sofia says thoughtfully. “I’m the same. If I don’t know the schedule and plan, my chest gets all…buzzy.” She taps her chest. “Like the way soda fizzes.”

“We can tell you the plan. Always,” I reassure her.

Her eyes flick to the men. Grigory gives a small nod in agreement, and Matvey and Nikolai confirm this with a two-fingered salute.

Then Sofia turns the page herself. The picture shows a cat on a windowsill, watching rain.

“Sometimes, cats need a perch. High enough to see. But far away enough to breathe,” I read.

“Busy places feel like too much sometimes,” Sofia tells me. “I can ask you for a hug, right?”

“Yes,” I say with no edge. “And if I can’t give it at that moment, I’ll tell you.”

“That’s good, Viktor,” she says, patting my large hand with her tiny one. “You just tell me if you’re struggling too much to give me a hug.”

I clear my voice. “Cats are different to people. But different doesn’t mean alone.”

She inhales and looks to Avelina who’s staring at us. “Mama, I think I have autism too.” She doesn’t whisper it. She just puts the sentence out there.

The room silences around us, and Avelina gives her a small nod, something shimmering in her eyes.

“Yeah,” I say. My voice is steadier than I thought possible. “Me too.” A few seconds tick by. The quiet is deafening. “I have autism too.”

The house holds its breath. The kind of pause that tells me everyone is listening.

Then Grigory exhales. “Finally. About time. And all it took was a self-help book with cats.”

Oxygen returns to the room.

Matvey smiles.

“That explains Viktor’s lists,” Nikolai mutters.

A couple of the others nod.

But no one laughs.

And no one looks surprised.

Grigory folds, throws down his cards, and pushes back his chair. On his way out of the room, he passes me and silently places his hand on my shoulder for a long moment before disappearing through the door and toward the office. And I’m left stunned that the men don’t look more shocked or suddenly treat me like I’m a freak.

I shake my head and finish reading the book to Sofia while the men carry on with their game. I reach the very last line. “You don’t have to be the same to belong.”

By the time I close the cover, Sofia is heavier against me. The kind of way kids get when they’re comfortable and trusting.

“Again?” Sofia asks.

I glance at the clock. My brain divides the evening into blocks. “Again,” I agree.

We read it a second time, Sofia supplying some lines before I can. When we finish, she presses her forehead to my arm and whispers, “Tight hug?”

“Yeah,” I say, wrapping my arms around her shoulders. “You can ask me anytime.”

She squeezes me back for exactly four seconds, then she lets go, satisfied. “Can we keep the book by the couch, Viktor?”

“Yeah. It stays here.”