3:17 AM. That's when the nightmare always starts.
Mikhail Volkov wakes with a gasp that sounds like drowning. His apartment in Chicago is dark and cold, the kind of cold that seeps through the brick walls from the lake and settles into the bones. For a moment he doesn't remember where he is. Then the medals on the wall catch the streetlight and he remembers everything. The nightmare was the same as always. A child. Small, no older than six,...
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