“I don’t want you to work in town,” said Anyuta.

Her pretended spell was meant to convince them she was too frail for manual labor. But perhaps her act had been a poor one; perhaps they were still unconvinced. She was leaving too much to chance. It was her own fault if this opportunity passed. “It’s what I want. Will you help me?”

“I’d forgotten how it feels to sink into a mattress,” Anyuta marveled. “This must be how death feels. Or at least the first part—the dying part.” She shifted, as if trying to settle in further.

Margarita pressed her fists against her forehead. This was not helpful.

“Raisa Sergeyna works in town,” said Anyuta. She was an accountant. It was a special arrangement.

“How does that work?”

“The Super keeps her wages. I told you: a special arrangement.”

Margarita lowered her fists. “I mean, how did she get that job? How was she picked? I really want this.”

Anyuta was quiet for a moment. “I don’t remember,” she said. She sounded small and miserable. “Lucky, I guess.”

The birds in the ceiling went in circles, nowhere. What could Anyuta do? “Don’t talk about dying anymore,” said Margarita. It was bad luck.

Anyuta laughed suddenly. “This bed is amazing.”

They kept Margarita in the infirmary for another day. Anyuta didn’t return. The next morning, Raisa was carried in on a stretcher. Margarita had just finished eating, sitting up in bed, her tray on her lap. The medics deposited the woman on the first cot along the wall; one remained. No effort was made to pull the sheet over her. Margarita went to the end of the bed. The woman’s eyes were half open, her breathing irregular; several times a minute she gasped long and hard. It became a matter of waiting to see if that breath was her last or if there would be another to follow. The medic seemed to be waiting too.

“We think she ate rat poison,” he said. He hung the stretcher from some hooks in the wall. It was a shame, he said. She was to be released in the summer. He didn’t sound particularly mournful.

Margarita asked how poison came to be in her food.

He didn’t speculate. As if this was a reasonable hazard in their everyday lives.

Raisa convulsed a little, her pale lips parted.

The medic told Margarita she was to be discharged that morning. She waited as Raisa intermittently gasped; he delivered her discharge papers to her in a sealed envelope. There was nothing to do but to return to the barracks. Midway across the prison yard she stopped and undid the still damp seal. It was late morning and the grounds were empty. The clouds were high and thin with the sun a hard dim circle over her shoulder. The physician had deemed her fit to return to usual labor. The slanted strokes from his hand had betrayed her. She glanced at the snow-covered yard as if she might light upon a pencil with which to alter them. Stray bits of old straw caught her eye but each time disappointed. She’d not tried hard enough. The reflected sun from the icy path burned her eyes.

She returned to the infirmary and knocked on the door of what she thought was the physician’s office. With her second knock a woman answered; she was pinning some stray hair back into her bun as she scanned Margarita with mild suspicion. She told her the doctor was not available as if to imply that even if he was, he’d be disinclined to see her.

“There’s an error on my discharge papers,” said Margarita. She held the doorframe as though she could not be so easily dislodged.

“What error?” The woman looked personally offended.

“I’m not trying to get anyone into trouble,” she said, as if it was all the same to her. “I should think he’d be grateful I checked before turning them in. But if he’s not available.” She turned to leave.

The woman paused with indecision. “Wait here.” She disappeared into the room, leaving the door ajar. There were voices and movement; the door opened again revealing the physician. He was a large man though somewhat gangly, she thought; fair and in need of a haircut. He studied her as if uncertain she was the same person, now upright and dressed, as the woman he’d evaluated briefly in the infirmary the day before.

“There is a problem?”

He asked in an honest manner, unsullied by mistrust. He, like the factory physician, was a noticeable transplant from a different world. She hesitated, uncertain if she should deceive him or risk his confidence.

His nurse stood behind him, her arms crossed; she’d recovered her composure and maintained a wary if not protective manner.

“I must speak to you alone,” said Margarita. She tried to sound ambiguous: it wasn’t clear if she was concerned for herself or for him. He nodded, and opened the door further.

Margarita waited for the nurse to leave then followed him into the office and shut the door. “I’ll catch hell for this,” he said under his breath. He sat on his desk, irrespective of the scattered papers. “Yes?” He spoke not unkindly but as though she’d better make this worth the interruption.

She held out the envelope and he took it from her. “I believe there is an error.” She’d not thought through what else she might say. She watched him scan the pages, her panic growing.

“I don’t think I should be sent back to the labor teams,” she said. “I’m not yet well enough. I’m not ready.”

“Really?” he said, still seeming to read. “What are you ready for, then?” He looked at her. “What can you do?”

His expression was flat, unperturbed; it wasn’t possible to tell what he was thinking.

She’d heard of female prisoners making particular arrangements with their prison commanders or physicians or other personnel of note. Certain protections could be had for a price. The room was warm. He didn’t appear to be bothered or embarrassed. “I can do other things,” she said. Her voice seemed to come from far away. She repeated her words, trying to sound stronger, perhaps more enthusiastic for such a situation.

For a moment she thought he would accept her offer. Then he smiled.

“You’re one of the healthiest women here,” he said. He handed the papers back. “Look, I’m not political. I realize you may be wrongly imprisoned, but that isn’t my concern. I’m sorry.”

He didn’t want her. And he didn’t care about her. For the first time, this felt deeply personal. She felt sorry for herself in a way she’d not felt since her arrest. Tears came. He made no move to console her; nor did he hurry her. He repeated the words, I’m sorry, at regular intervals. It was all he would offer. She had no handkerchief; she rubbed her face, smearing her cheeks.

He’d been well schooled in the manner of delivering bad news, she thought ungraciously. In the next moment though, she took this back. Why should he take responsibility for a world not of his making? Why should he pretend more regret than he felt?

She returned to the barracks and gave the pages to the guard inside. She went to her bed board and lay down. She was more a prisoner now than she had ever been. She would become one of those who steals clothes. She wondered if Raisa’s box still held hers; she could go through them before the others returned. A dead woman’s sweater would keep her warm. She would wear it and watch others freeze. A guard came and ordered her into the dining hall for the noon meal.

The hall was nearly empty; one other woman was there: the new prisoner. Margarita sat at her usual place, across from where Anyuta would sit. The woman was somewhere behind her. Margarita listened to the sounds of her eating. A glass was picked up then set down. Then picked up again. Margarita stared at her plate. She remembered the rat poison. She drew her fork through her food; such was a reasonable hazard. Something crashed behind her and she looked around. The woman was staring in her direction, her face both apologetic and frightened. The floor around her bench glittered with pieces of glass. Margarita went to her.

As she crossed the room, Margarita recognized her as the passing acquaintance she’d known in Moscow. An older woman, fifty or so, she’d been a bookkeeper at the first paper where Margarita had worked. Perhaps they’d spoken to each other. Perhaps not. She was changed now; a prisoner version of the former Muscovite. Fleetingly, Margarita wondered about her own appearance; a prisoner version of the old Margarita, of someone’s daughter, someone’s lover. She knelt and began to pick up the glass.

“Don’t,” the woman exclaimed. She sat and watched.

Each piece had its own particular shape: a fragment of the base, a curved wall, a wedge of rim. A slender point penetrated her palm, painless at first, then there was the button of red and the needlelike burn. As she watched, a second shard entered her finger near its base.

“You’re bleeding,” said the woman.

“I didn’t mean to,” said Margarita, then wondered what she’d meant. She took a napkin from the table and wrapped it around her palm. Briefly pale as her skin, the cloth bled as well, spreading dark along its fibers. With a second napkin, Margarita gathered the pieces into a pile. It occurred to her that the woman had dropped the glass on purpose. As if in some cosmic equilibrium, harm to one meted out protection to another.

“You should go to the infirmary,” said the woman.

Margarita shook her head. She closed her hand and opened it again. The red crept across the cloth like a secret language revealed.

“I’m so afraid,” said the woman softly. Of the glass. The blood. The pain. Of all things.

Margarita finished cleaning the mess for her. Somehow this meant that she was less afraid.