Vita Nostra by Marina Dyachenko, Sergey Dyachenko

Valentin ruminated on how lucky it was that Sasha had broken her left arm, which meant that she could continue attending school and her college prep classes, and she could still take notes, because her right arm is just fine! Sasha felt as if her head ceased to be round, had turned into an aerodynamic tunnel, with Valentin’s words getting sucked into one ear and, whistling and roaring, and flying out of the other.
    Mom called from the office, worried, asking how things were going. Deadly calm, Sasha assured her everything was fine; then she went into her room and lay down on the couch, neglecting to remove her sweater.
    What was she going to do now? It was fourteen degrees outside. How was she supposed to pull her sleeve over the cast? How was she going to manage getting dressed and undressed by herself?
    Three alarm clocks stood in a row. Two tick-tocked quietly, one winked electronic numbers. Every day, every day, and Sasha had two months in the cast…
    “…People fall, break their bones, die under the wheels of a car…” But Sasha did everything, met all the conditions! Why did this have to happen to her?
    Don’t worry, said the old surgeon. Stuff happens. And really, had Sasha been about seventy years old or so, then, yes, it would be truly terrible. And this, this was simply an inconvenience, an unpleasant accident, nothing tragic…
    Unpleasant, but not tragic. If Valentin did not have his heart spasm on the beach, how would his relationship with Mom have developed? Would it have developed at all?
    Sasha crept into the kitchen. She poured herself some of Mom’s valerian root drops, gulped it down—absolutely disgusting!—crawled under the blanket and fell asleep.
    ***
    At twenty-nine minutes past four she flew up, as if on a trampoline. Sasha sat up, her mind muddled by sleep, and tried to stretch her arm but jerked with sudden pain.
    She remembered; shook her head—did this mean she’d slept for almost twenty four hours?
    Her mouth was dry. Sasha stood up, drank some water from the teapot, managed to pull on her sweat pants, and stuck her feet into her boots. She poked her right arm into the sleeve, grunting, heaved the jacket over the left shoulder. Holding a ski hat, she went outside.
    The sky had cleared up again. The stars burned brightly. Icy patches in the courtyard were cleared haphazardly; some spots were heavily covered with sand and salt. The cast grew cold on her arm, a strange, unpleasant sensation. Only a few minutes remained until five o’clock. Sasha walked more quickly. She went down into the underground crossing, holding the railing with her good arm. Her steps echoed in the dark tunnel. Only seconds remained.
    A lone streetlight burned at the park entrance. A man stood leaning onto its pole.
    Sasha marched by with bullet-like determination. And only having stepped onto a snow-bound path, she startled and glanced back.
    The streetlight reflected in the smoky lenses. Two bright yellow dots.
    “Go home,” said the man who stood under the streetlight. “Get some rest. Starting today, you don’t have to run anymore.”
    ***
    In March the cast was removed. Mom suggested that now, finally, Sasha’s nerves would get back to normal, and her “weirdness” would cease.
    Strangely enough, no longer having to run in the mornings proved to be excruciatingly difficult. It seemed as if life had lost meaning. Valentin’s presence aggravated her more and more. Once he even left to stay at a hotel, and Mom did not speak with Sasha for several days. All alone, Sasha roamed aimlessly along the streets, hating school and the college prep. The tutor ended up canceling their sessions.
    Valentin reasoned with Mom to be patient. He convinced her that Sasha’s issue was stopping her near-dependency on painkillers, which she swallowed by handfuls. He had a good point.
    And Mom was right as well. Having shed the cast, regaining the use of her arm, Sasha calmed down almost immediately. The chain of everyday