quiet, the passengers unaware that anything out of the ordinary was happening. It was remarkable—
with the noise and the movement, he would have thought someone would be asking questions, or at
least complaining. But the human desire for normalcy outweighed all else.
After searching the length of the train they came to a door marked PRIVATE LOUNGE . Yana typed an access
code into an electronic keypad. The door didn’t open.
“It’s strange,” she said, trying a second time. “I don’t recognize this car. It must have been attached
in Moscow.”
Bruno understood Yana’s thinking—if the creatures were anywhere on the train, it was there. “If
we can’t get in this way,” he said, gesturing to the door. “We’ll have to go out.”
Yana considered this a moment, and then, turning on her heel, led Bruno back to the sleeping
berths. She slid open one of the doors, startling the passengers, a man and a woman sleeping in
opposite beds. The man jumped out of bed and began screaming in Russian, gesturing for them to get
out and—if Bruno could read the man’s intentions—threatening to call the conductor. Yana put her
hand on his shoulder and, speaking in a gentle voice, tried to calm him down. Soon the man’s wife
climbed out of her bed and began speaking with great animation. After some time they opened the
window to the berth. Yana gestured for Bruno to follow her as she hoisted herself up and climbed out
the window. He saw her black leather boots gain footing on the sill. With a push, they were up on the
roof of the train.
Bruno nodded to the Russian couple and climbed out into the biting wind. The cold was brutal,
unlike anything he’d felt before. He blinked away tears, feeling them stick against his eyelids as they
froze and melted. Yana stood at the edge of the train, balancing as if she were on a high wire, the
glare of the rising sun setting her hair ablaze.
“What did you tell them?” Bruno asked, as he joined her on the roof. With the metallic grinding of
the train and the howling wind, he had to shout to be heard.
“That my uncle got drunk and climbed out of the train,” Yana said. “I told them we had no choice
but to find him and bring him back inside.”
“And they believed you?”
“This is Russia,” Yana said, giving him a withering look. “Everybody’s got an uncle who gets
drunk and climbs out a train window at least once. Usually the police find these guys frozen in a
snowdrift somewhere, bottle of vodka in hand.”
“Charming,” Bruno said.
“There’s a reason why the average life expectancy for Russian men is sixty-three,” she said, her
voice rising over the noise. “Now we want to go there, to that car ahead. We have to be careful—too
much noise and we’ll have problems with the conductor. Think you can make it?”
Bruno felt his temper flare. Just because he’d had trouble with the Gibborim didn’t mean he
couldn’t keep up with Yana. “Of course,” he said. “I’ll meet you there.”
Pushing through the wind, Bruno made his way over the metal rooftop. A layer of snow capped the
car, covering his shoes. His feet were burning hot, and then, after a few minutes, numb. He jumped the
gap between the cars easily, but at the end of the third car, he landed hard on a patch of ice, lost his
balance, and fell. He saw the landscape tip away from him, slowly, as if he were falling off the edge
of a high cliff into a bottomless cloud.
He landed hard on the rooftop, his body pressing into the powdery snow. It was in the thrall of this
sensation—a dry chill that froze through his brain—that he heard a meek voice from below. Pushing
himself to the edge of the roof, he found Verlaine, tied to the metal bars of a railing, his body laid out
on a narrow ledge. Bruno waved Yana over, and together they climbed over the edge of the roof and
made their way down to the ledge, where Verlaine lay frightfully still.
Despite his efforts to speak, Verliane looked half dead. His skin was gray, his lips blue, his wire-
rimmed glasses ringed with ice. Bruno untied the ropes with Yana’s help and, after helping Verlaine
stand, slid open a door and pulled him into a train car, where Yana proceeded to rub his hands and
arms, trying to bring blood back to his extremities. Bruno ran to the restaurant car, ordered black tea,
and carried the pot and cup back to Verlaine. By the time he returned Yana had helped Verlaine to sit
against the wall. His shoes were off, and she had his feet between her hands, rubbing the skin. Bruno
poured the tea and was relieved to see him drink the entire cup. He filled it a second time and