HELP!

“You need to drink less coffee.”

The doctor’s words ring out through the small, bright office. Cold air drifts in through the cracked-open window, sending a slight shiver through my body. The lingering smell of bleach keeps stinging my nose. I rub it longer than I need to. A minute. Or ten.

The doctor sits looking at the computer screen. His movements break up into separate frames. The patient form is reflected in his rectangular glasses—mine. Too many letters. He keeps typing more.

Outside, it’s gray, almost dark. Frost coats the glass; tiny snowflakes cling to it, forming an intricate pattern. In winter, it’s harder to control the mounting fatigue: there’s little sun, the nights grow longer. Sleep weighs more and more heavily on my mind—my eyes are already starting to close.

I’ve only been awake for three days. Too soon yet.

“Kira, can you hear me?” The doctor looks at me, adjusting his glasses.

“No.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“Oh… I mean, yes. Coffee.”

My thoughts are sluggish, words coming in a broken stream, failing to form a sentence.

“How much do you drink a day?”

I start uncurling my fingers. One in the morning, before work. Two after lunch. Another to keep me from falling asleep behind the counter. I lose count. My fingers double before my eyes, showing somewhere between four and nine.

“I think… Three?”

I quickly put my hand away. The doctor watches my every move. Pinches the bridge of his nose and gives a faint tsk. Presses a button. The printer on the desk starts humming; the paper drops down with a crackle. He picks it up in one motion, studies the text for a long time, then looks at me. Stamps it. Holds out the form.

“Take this to the pharmacy.”

There’s a long list of medications on the sheet.

“And no coffee. Unless, of course, your goal is a heart attack at twenty-three.”

I nod. I crumple the paper haphazardly and put it in my pocket. Get up from the chair and say a quick goodbye. The door slams behind me with a slight delay.

I follow the route from memory. A long corridor. Then right. A few meters ahead. And there, in front of me, stands my old acquaintance. The coffee machine.

It sits alone in a corner beside the exam rooms. Its muted hum echoes off the hospital walls.

My face is visible in the machine’s glass panel. The curve of the surface distorts it: my forehead looks unnaturally large and pale, my nose veers to one side, my lips stretch into a long, crooked line. But even like this, I can make out the dark circles under my eyes. Too big.

I tap my shoe against the marble tile. Run my fingers into my hair to pull my ponytail tighter. Black strands still come loose, slipping onto my face, brushing my cheeks. The pain from the pull takes the edge off the urge to sleep, but the effect doesn’t last long.

I take a small leather wallet from the pocket of my zip-up sweatshirt. Sort through the coins, the change gradually collecting in my hand. One slips from my fingers, falls onto the tile at my feet. The ringing carries through the empty space. The sound doesn’t end. It stretches on, turning into a high-pitched ring that cuts into my ear.

I bend down.

The darkness in my eyes thickens.

My hand doesn’t touch the cold tile.

It passes somewhere beside it.

The coin is gone.

Between my fingers—sand.

It spills over my skin: hot, shifting. I freeze. The hard surface gives way beneath my feet, becoming soft and uneven. Light hits my eyes. I blink to adjust. The hum gradually fades, as though an echo of the hospital is sounding for the last time. Wind whistles over my ear. I shield my face with my palm to look around.

Around me—nothing but endless desert.

I take a deep breath. I’ve ended up far away this time… Good. That means the Tie will have a long search too.

My head finally clears; at least for a while, I can stop thinking about fatigue and coffee.

I can’t stay where I am, or He’ll come.

I see a barely noticeable glimmer in the distance, like the light from a lighthouse. It shows me where I need to go. I map out a route in my head and start walking.

Each step—harder than the last. In places, the surface is firm; in others, I sink almost to my knees. My feet burn. Sand gets into my sneakers, scraping my skin. My gaze shifts to my wrist out of habit—the hands on my watch don’t move. Time doesn’t pass. It exists only in my head.

I can’t tell how many days have passed. A week, it seems. Or a month. The silence around me makes my ears ring. This whine doesn’t stop for a second.

A step. Sand. Another step.

The outlines of a city emerge on the horizon.

I don’t relax—the hardest part is still ahead. But I still hope it will all work itself out.

The houses stretch along the horizon as I get closer. Low, pressed to the ground. Endless. Like a maze with no way out—only a way in. They look like empty boxes piled on top of one another. Dusty, dull: the color of scorched sand that already makes me sick.

I come closer. Enter a narrow, winding street. Everything around me is made of the same stone—peeling facades, uneven paving, old roofs. Only the sky provides a slight contrast to the city with its gray hue.

I’m already forgetting what trees look like.

My vision flickers. The ground keeps swimming beneath my feet for a while longer. I sit on a step by the porch of a house to catch my breath.

A fabric awning casts a small patch of shade. It doesn’t move, just sits imprinted on the stone like dark paint. People stand around me in pale robes: a man with a gray beard extends one leg to take a step; a woman with a scarf over her head stumbles, an apple falling from her basket; a boy in worn clothes winds up to kick a ball at a window. Everything is frozen, like a still frame. I close my eyes. The wind blows strands of my hair, tickles my ears, touches my shoulders. The noise in my ears briefly subsides.

I wish it would all end soon.

By now, I’m ready to get caught by the Tie, just so I never have to see this desert again.

A chill runs down my back. No, not him. I slowly stand up. Walk up the steps. The door stands out from the others—made of dark oak, its ornament carved by hand. Not a single gap or scratch.

I wonder how much you’d have to steal to buy yourself one like that?

I pull the gilded handle. It gives without resistance.

The moment I step into the room, the world starts coming to life. Sounds fill the space: someone’s shoes scrape over gravel; the apple hits the ground; the sound of breaking glass and hurried children’s footsteps recede faster and faster. The street noise drowns out the loud voices in the house. A man’s shouting mixes with a woman’s, turning into an incoherent jumble. After weeks of silence, any sound seems pleasant. The language is unfamiliar, harsh, like a string of strange sounds.

I walk into the living room. The smell of spices and something faintly sweet, almost stifling, reaches my nose. My gaze catches on a wooden shelf by the window—there’s incense on it. Smoke trails down in a thin line onto a wide, dark green sofa with round bolsters. The fabric’s oriental pattern shimmers in the light.

I look at the source of the noise: a boy of about seven stands with his eyes lowered. His parents wave their arms, casting cold glances at him now and then. He bites his lips, his eyes reddening, barely holding back tears. At his feet—a broken vase. Pale shards have scattered in different directions, dark ash spilled across the floor. His mother looks at the dust, her hand over her mouth, paying no attention to her upset son. I squint, as though trying to make something out in the ashes.

Grandma or Grandpa?

Though it doesn’t matter.

Before I can finish the thought, time starts slowing down. The voices grow even less intelligible. People’s movements stretch out.

Damn, he’s close.

The boy is crying, his parents are angry.

It all seems—obvious.

I move closer to the child. Lean toward his ear. Hard, almost mechanical footsteps approach the door.

“It’s not your fault.”

Job done.

I breathe out in relief.

To hell with this damned place.

I sit on a rectangular table, my palm settling on its corner. Too sharp, as though someone forgot to sand it down.

The boy stays where he is.

Nothing changes.

The door creaks. A red tie flashes in the mirror.

I jump up. The creaking floorboards draw closer.

No time to whisper; I shout the first thing that comes to mind:

“Everything’s okay. They love you.”

Patent leather shoes step across the threshold into the room. His black suit is too smooth, without a single crease. Steady breathing carries through the silence.

My eyes dart around the room, trying to pick out any details that might help.

There’s nothing.

I feel the air behind me grow denser. My hands tremble. I clench my fists hard. My nails dig into my skin. I don’t feel the pain. But it’ll come if the Tie gets closer to me.

I hate this damned place. But even more—Him.

A click sounds in my head, like a key turning in a lock.

I look at the child’s hands.

Fists.

Everything falls into place.

The words escape my lips on their own:

“You have a right to be angry.”

A second—with only thoughts racing past and the pounding of my own heart. The footsteps stop. The boy’s fingers twitch. His fists slowly unclench. He abruptly kicks the shards of the vase, shoves his parents aside and runs toward the exit. Gray dust rises into the air. A cough bursts from my lungs.

I turn around. The boy’s face relaxes. He smiles without a care, as though he hadn’t been scolded for breaking a vase a couple of minutes ago. I start smiling along with him. The child’s figure disappears beyond the doorway.

My gaze shifts to the side. The Tie stands a couple of meters away from me. His face seems perfectly proportioned. Too smooth. Too symmetrical. As though someone drew a person and forgot to leave anything alive in him. His dull, dark eyes stare almost lifelessly, as though looking straight into my soul. I freeze, unable to look away. My chest tightens. My vision narrows, darkness flooding its edges. And then the darkness collapses into his pupils. The world stops existing for a second. No light, no sound. Only a faint sense of peace.

My body is hurled backward—into the void. My shoulders uncurl, my legs straighten. My palm touches soft, thick fabric. I feel a hard surface beneath my back.

I open my eyes.

The lamp overhead shines with a bright, cold light. A sharp pain shoots through the back of my head. I’m lying on a narrow examination table; someone has thoughtfully covered me with a blanket. Sand prickles the skin between my toes. Or am I imagining it?

“Made it.”

“Excuse me?” A woman’s voice comes from the back of the room.

I turn my head. A woman in a white coat stands by a glass cabinet. In her hands—a small bottle and a wad of cotton. I jerk upright. Regret it immediately. My head spins, my body is thrown back onto the table. I sit up to steady myself.

“Careful!”

The nurse rushes over and immediately starts examining me from head to toe.

“I was just about to bring you around.” Her voice trembles. “You collapsed by the coffee machine…”

She rattles on too fast. I don’t listen closely. Look around for a clock.

“How long was I asleep?”

Her eyes widen. Her lips open and close without a sound, as though she can’t find the right words.

“Four hours.” The nurse looks out the window. Too intently, as though she’s late for something. “How do you feel?”

“Do you really care?”

The woman stops sighing for show. Her gaze turns indifferent.

“My shift is over. Could you please leave the office?"

I get up, grab my jacket from the coat rack and head for the door. Her voice stops me at the exit:

“If you don’t care about yourself. Think of your loved ones.”

“I don’t have any,” I say curtly and step across the threshold.

I hear a quiet “Oh” behind me.

If she starts pestering me with sympathy, the day will be completely ruined.

I quicken my pace. Leave the hospital.

Outside, the air smells fresh and frosty. Light glimmers in the snowdrifts, high-rises loom lifelessly above the ground. Not a trace of sand. Finally.

I call a taxi on my phone. A yellow car pulls into the parking lot a few minutes later. I get in and exhale, sinking into the seat. The ride home feels like the nicest thing that’s happened in all this time.

“Turn it up.”

The taxi driver looks at me in the mirror, then dials up the volume. The car fills with bass. The simple song sends vibrations through my legs.

His taste isn’t great. But I’m willing to listen to anything, as long as I don’t have to sit in silence.

Day one.

I hope I last longer this time.