Adrian
Adrian“How are you?” I ask my younger sister in our mother tongue. I try to talk to her every day or two. The whole time I’ve been gone, I’ve battled guilt over leaving her there alone. She’s come a long way in the year since she’s been free, but she still has bouts of debilitating paranoia and depression brought on by her PTSD. She suffers from agoraphobia–fear of leaving the house. She’s getting counseling, but I’m still so afraid she’ll relapse.
“I’m fine." She gives a groggy laugh. "I just woke up. It’s six a.m. here. You texted me to call when I woke up.”
“Right, sorry. Have you left the building since we last talked?”
“No, but I’m going out tonight.”
Right. It’s Thursday, which means Story’s band is playing.
Nadia’s not entirely alone in America. We live in the Kremlin.
