“Stepanych, if I pull through one more shift without days off — I’ll marry the first woman who’ll just feed me borscht,” Igor Viktorovich Mednikov said wearily, closing his eyes and leaning back on the worn seat of the old Gazelle van.
His voice was hoarse, as if fragments of fatigue were rolling in his throat. He spoke more to himself than to his companion but still awaited a reply. A reply that would help him, even for a moment, to forget, relax, and feel alive.
Paramedic Stepan Anatolyevich Kuznetsov, a small, thin man with perpetual nervous movements and the eyes of someone long accustomed to constant tension, kept riffling through ampoules in the medical box and snorted:
“Getting married, Viktorich, is no big deal. But divorcing later — that’s when the trouble starts. Especially if the so-called ‘borscht half’ turns out to be the kind who cling to the stove so tightly that you’d need a scalpel to separate them.”
Pavel, the driver and a man who spoke maybe three words all shift, just grunted shortly, staring at the city lights flashing by outside the window. For him, these talks were part of the nightly ritual — a background, barely audible soundtrack to the endless string of calls, grief, and strangers’ lives they picked up on the fly, like fallen autumn leaves.
Igor smiled, but there was no joy in that smile — rather bitterness, almost painful. He knew all too well what they were talking about. He knew surgeons from experience. A few years ago, he was one — young, talented, full of ideals and a drive to save lives. He saw himself in the operating room, with instruments in hand, with determination sharp enough to cut through even fear. But life — a fickle and unpredictable woman — had other plans.
His childhood was like a prolonged inflammation — painful, cold, lonely. His father, drunk beyond memory, disappeared first, dissolving into a binge like a stain on a white coat. His mother held on for a while, tried to be a mother, but alcohol was stronger than her. She broke. Left, abandoning the child alone amidst poverty, hunger, and indifference. Hunger was not only in the stomach — it was in the looks, in the school walls, in every step down the worn corridors.
But inside him burned a spark. Vague but stubborn. He studied, gripping textbooks with his teeth, proving to himself he could escape. Grandfather Nikolai, strict and stern but with a kind heart, took him in. “Mednikovs don’t give up,” he said, handing his grandson a piece of bread and comfort disguised as scolding.
The student years passed like one long breath before a fall. Igor was the best in his class, a role model for others. They called him the future of surgery. He tasted success, but too soon. Because that’s when he met Marina — a quiet, calm classmate who seemed like an island in his stormy ocean. They created a family, or so it seemed. In reality, it was a trap disguised as love.
Quarrels, hysteria, accusations that he spent too much time at work… Igor began returning home with a heaviness in his chest. Then the thing he feared most happened — his hand trembled during surgery. Just for a fraction of a second. But that was enough. A colleague noticed in time and intervened. But for Mednikov, it was the end. He never forgave himself that weakness. He took off the coat like a banner of defeat and went to the emergency service, where decisions were simpler, where pain could be dulled with analgesics instead of making fateful calls.
That’s how he ended up here, in this shabby van, in the company of two equally exhausted people, sharing the night, coffee, and random stories.
The Gazelle stopped near a crooked two-story building in a dark yard, more like a set for a horror movie. The facade was peeling in places, the windows covered with dirty curtains, and the air smelled of dampness and abandonment.
“Well, what a dump,” Pavel grumbled. “The ghouls must be waiting their turn here.”
“Let’s just hope nobody’s on the stairs,” added Stepanych, checking the contents of his medical case.
When they entered the apartment, they were met by an unexpected contrast: the gloomy entrance hall gave way to coziness. The room was tidy, smelled of freshness and baking. At the table sat a young woman — Svetlana Sergeyevna. Her face showed worry, but her eyes glimmered with hope.
“Please, come in. Kiryusha has a high fever, a bad cough…”
The child lay on the bed, pale, with feverish burning eyes. Stepanych began the examination. The diagnosis was grim — pneumonia. Igor took out his notebook to write a referral for hospitalization. Then his fingers touched an unfamiliar object — a note, neatly folded and tucked away unnoticed.
He unfolded it under the cover of the notebook. Just a few lines, but each word hit like a blow to the stomach: “Please say the child needs hospitalization. I beg you. They will kill us.”
A chill ran down his spine. He looked up at the woman. Now he saw not just a worried mother but a woman living in fear. A plea flickered in her eyes, hidden panic in her movements.
“The child must be hospitalized immediately. We suspect acute pneumonia. We’re taking you to the hospital,” Igor said firmly.
Svetlana trembled as she packed her things. Kirill cried, not understanding why his mother was so afraid. But the fears did not fully materialize — a crash sounded in the stairwell, followed by a furious shout. The door slammed open, and a tall man with a rifle appeared in the doorway — Vyacheslav, the stepfather.
“Where to?!” he shouted. “Where are you taking them?!”
Svetlana screamed, shielding her son. The man, furious, aimed the barrel at her.
The shot rang out suddenly. The woman slowly sank to the floor. Blood spread across the floor. Kirill howled like a little animal that had lost its protector.
Vyacheslav, realizing what he had done, panicked. He turned the gun on himself. A second shot — and he collapsed next to her.
Silence. Only the child’s crying broke the stillness. Igor rushed to Svetlana, acting quickly, clearly, mechanically — all the skills he thought lost returned to him like old friends.
“Stepanych! Tourniquet! Fast!”
At that moment, he was a doctor again. Not broken, not defeated, but the very person he once wanted to be.
Behind the wall, in the dark stairwell, the city continued its usual, indifferent life.
“Faster, Pavel! Step on it! We’re losing her!” Igor shouted, holding the IV with one hand and trying not to drop the medical instruments with the other.
The Gazelle sped through the city’s night streets like Death herself was chasing them. Streetlights flashed outside, car lights, rare passersby unaware that someone’s life literally hung by a thread. Inside the vehicle, tense silence reigned, broken only by anxious commands and the faint moan of the wounded woman.
When they burst into the emergency room, it was like thunder on a clear day. The nurse flinched at Igor’s voice:
“Urgent! Gunshot wound to the chest, heavy blood loss! Patient unconscious!”
She rushed to the phone to call the surgeons. After a couple of minutes, a sleepy resident appeared in the corridor.
“All surgeons are busy! Petrov is on an appendectomy, Zavadskiy is on vacation…”
“Then who’s available?!” Igor interrupted impatiently, feeling cold sweat running down his neck.
“Only me… and Valeria, the new assistant.”
Igor turned. The girl, about twenty-three, pale, with disheveled hair and wide-open eyes, barely managed to put on her coat. She looked like she was about to faint. But there was no time to hesitate.
Svetlana was losing blood. Her face was paler than paper. Every moment of delay could be her last. Something inside Igor suddenly clicked. That very sense of responsibility he had pushed deep inside after that operating room incident. Surgeon Mednikov, once the best in his class, suddenly woke up.
“Prepare the operating room,” he said firmly, looking the resident in the eye. “I will operate. Under my responsibility.”
Tension hung in the room. No one expected such a turn. Valeria looked at him either with fear or reverence.
“But you’re from the ambulance…”
“I’m a surgeon. And there are no former surgeons.”
The operation was hell. Every step demanded utmost concentration. The bullet had grazed the subclavian artery — the task was complicated by the need not just to stop the bleeding but to restore the vessel’s integrity. Igor worked with terrible precision, though inside he felt sick with fear: “Not again? Am I going to fail now?”
His fingers trembled. He saw not just a patient before him but a woman saving her son, fighting for the life not only of herself but also of her child. He remembered his own years of loneliness, the pain of loss, the fear of being utterly alone. And he understood: he could not let this child become as orphaned as he had been.
“Clamp,” he ordered Valeria. To his surprise, his voice was calm and confident.
Hours passed like one long moment. When the last stitch was placed, and the monitor showed a steady pulse, Igor felt his legs give out. He slowly removed his mask, wiped sweat from his forehead, and leaned against the wall as he stepped out of the operating room.
Stepan sat in the corridor, holding the sleeping Kirill. The boy’s face was tear-streaked but now he breathed quietly, burying his nose in the paramedic’s shoulder. Igor approached, gently stroked his head, and sat down beside him whispering:
“Your mother will live. I promise.”
The boy woke up. He looked at Igor with his huge, too serious eyes. And suddenly he cried. Unrestrainedly. As if all the fear, pain, and tension of these hours burst out. He pressed close to Igor like to a relative. And Igor, without saying a word, just hugged him. Tight. Like he hadn’t hugged anyone in a long time.
Then came the police, explanations, formalities. But one question remained: what to do with Kirill? He had no relatives nearby. Social services could take him away at any moment. Igor was silent for a long time, looking at the boy who seemed not to realize yet that he had lost not only a home but his only close person.
“I will take him in,” he said unexpectedly. “At least temporarily. Until Svetlana recovers.”
He didn’t understand where those words came from. Maybe reflex. Maybe duty. Or maybe just a heart that found a new meaning.
Life with a child was for Igor like being born again. He didn’t know how to tie shoelaces, how to choose a school backpack, what books six-year-olds read. He bought toys that turned out either too childish or too mature. Cooked porridge that always burned. But Kirill ate silently, sometimes even smiling.
At night, the boy sobbed in his sleep. Then Igor would get up, go to his folding bed, and just sit nearby. In the dark. Until the child’s breathing became steady.
Every day they went to the hospital together. Igor held Kirill’s hand, and that small palm, trustfully lying in his hand, filled his life with something important, previously unknown to him.
And Svetlana… She watched all this with gratitude impossible to express in words. But in her gaze, there was more than just thanks. It was the beginning of something new. Something warm and real.
When Svetlana was discharged, she had nowhere to go. Igor did not hesitate:
“Stay with me. At least for now. The apartment is not luxurious, but there’s enough space.”
In the evening, they sat in the kitchen. Kirill slept. Svetlana, wrapped in Igor’s old sweater, slowly stirred her tea. And at some point, she began to speak. About her past. About how she dreamed of becoming a designer, how she met Slava, how beautiful words turned into a nightmare. About the first blow. The second. The third. About the death of a neighbor. About escape. About the fear that never left her for a second.
“If not for you…” she whispered, looking at Igor with tear-filled eyes. “If not for your determination… we wouldn’t be alive.”
Igor was silent. He just took her hand in his. There was nothing romantic in this touch — only understanding, warmth, and a promise to be near.
Weeks passed. They didn’t become a family immediately. It happened gradually. Bit by bit. By a cup of hot tea in the morning. By watching cartoons together in the evening. By bedtime stories. By tales Igor read expressively, and Kirill’s laughter, which became more frequent. By the warmth that again filled the apartment where before there had been emptiness.
One evening, when the boy was already asleep, Igor said:
“Maybe you should look for a job. And a place to live.”
Svetlana froze. Her look became anxious.
“Yes… probably…”
“Do you want to leave?”
She looked at him. He didn’t look away.
“No,” she whispered. “I want to stay.”
And then he smiled. Not sadly. Not restrained. Truly. Because he realized: he was no longer alone. And that family isn’t necessarily those you are born to. Sometimes it’s those you become, step by step, through pain, fear, and hope.
That night, Kirill dreamed. Of a big house. Of the sun. Of a mother who laughs and a man he now called “dad.” It was not just a dream. It was the first step into a new life.
And though their home was still small, and they had no porch at all, they had a solid foundation. A foundation of love, trust, and the desire to be together. And that was more than enough.