Ahead, in the beam of the headlights, a shape appeared. Small, indistinct. Ignat slowed down. A figure. A woman. A lone figure in the pitch darkness, far from any dwelling, any hint of shelter.
“Well, here we go,” an irritated, tired thought flashed through his mind, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. “She’s working. And the place is dead, not a single light, not a soul. No one at all.”
He was already about to drive past, avert his eyes, pretend he hadn’t seen her, when his gaze, used to the dark, caught a detail that didn’t fit the usual picture. The woman wasn’t making any beckoning gestures, wasn’t stepping towards the edge of the road, wasn’t trying to flag him down. She stood motionless, a little hunched over, clutching something shapeless and dark to her chest. Too dark to make out. Not a bag. Something else, bigger in size and, it seemed, more fragile. Something jolted deep in Ignat’s chest, somewhere under the fatigue and indifference. Instinct, honed by thousands of night runs, whispered softly but insistently:
“Something’s wrong here… Very wrong. Better to keep going. Better not to see it.”
Ignat had long since stopped counting the kilometers; they blended into the monotonous hum of the tires, into the steady swaying of the cab, into the endless strip of asphalt. Out here he was in his element; he liked this nighttime quiet of the roads, with the daytime roar of rushing cars left far behind. The road was his home, his temple, his cell. A lot had happened on the road. He had met all kinds of people. More than once danger had threatened; more than once he had reached out a helping hand. And now something squeezed his chest again, that familiar feeling, a mix of fear and duty.
And now this woman by the roadside… After driving about a hundred meters, he braked sharply, almost against his own will. The truck shuddered and came to a halt.
“You’re a fool, Ignat,” he scolded himself sternly. “Who knows what’s what. Who knows who wanders the roads at night. The Lord protects the cautious. Just keep going.”
He turned off the engine, and in the sudden silence his ears rang, the quiet almost deafening, unfamiliar. He climbed out of the cab, stretched, letting his gaze sweep over the darkness, peering into the emptiness. Not a soul. Only the rustle of roadside grass and the distant, ghostly rumble of another truck, fading beyond the horizon like an echo from another world.
When the woman saw him, she jerked from her place and quickly, almost at a trot, scurried toward him, stumbling in her long dark clothes. In the dim light of the marker lights he finally made out a young face, pale as a sheet, with huge eyes filled with mute terror. They seemed bottomless.
“Please, help us, get us out of here, quickly!” Her voice was squeezed, hoarse from agitation, from despair, from fear.
“Us? Who’s ‘us’? You’re not alone?” Ignat asked in surprise, glancing around. No one.
In response she silently, with a tenderness that could not hide the trembling of her hands, turned back a corner of the tight bundle. In an old, worn blanket, covered by its edge, a baby slept serenely. His tiny face was peaceful, in spite of everything happening around him.
Ignat’s heart clenched as if in a vise. All doubts retreated.
“Running from your husband or what? How did you end up here, alone on the road with a baby?” he asked more gently now, his voice losing its usual harshness.
The woman only looked at him again with a mute plea, and in that look there was such an abyss that Ignat felt a chill down his spine.
“Please, hurry. Take us away.”
He didn’t ask any more questions. He helped her climb up into the high, inconvenient cab and, as carefully as if he were handing over a crystal vase, passed her the precious bundle. He slammed the heavy door shut and sat back behind the wheel, feeling how the familiar world of his cab was suddenly filled with someone else’s suffering.
“Where should I take you?” he asked, shifting gears, and the rig gave a loud sigh and started off.
The stranger frowned, shrinking into herself, as if trying to make herself smaller, invisible.
“I don’t know… I’ll think of something. Just please, faster. Just forward.”
The truck rolled smoothly, rocking softly over the bumps, and floated forward again, cutting through the night darkness with its headlights like a ship across a black ocean. The cab smelled of coffee, smoke, and the road. Ignat kept glancing sideways at his passenger. She sat pressed against the door, tense like a string about to snap, not letting the child out of her arms, as if he were her only link to reality. It was clear she wasn’t one of those who hang around the highway. Her clothes were good, expensive even, just crumpled, and there was earth and pine needles stuck to her shoes. She’d come through the forest, no doubt. Walked a long time.
“You’re not one of THOSE, by any chance?” Ignat finally couldn’t stand the heavy silence. “’Cause you never know… Anything happens out here.”
“No,” she answered sharply, almost defiantly. “I’m not one of them. I’m not from the roadside. I’m not like that.”
“What’s your name? And the baby’s?”
“You’d better not know… Honestly, you’d be better off.”
They fell silent. The baby snuffled softly in his sleep; his even breathing was the only peaceful sound in that anxious night. Ignat felt a stab of sharp, aching pity again. He reached back and pulled out his old battered thermos.
“Listen, I’ve got tea. Hot and sweet. Sausage sliced up, bread in there too. Was going to have a snack. You can reach it, eat something. Warm up. I can see you’re frozen through.”
She looked at him, and in her eyes, along with fear, something like shame flickered—humiliation at having to accept a handout.
“Thank you,” she whispered barely audibly.
She ate slowly, as if forcing herself, taking tiny bites, but Ignat could see from her gaunt face that she was hungry, very hungry.
Then, embarrassed, eyes down, she asked:
“Could you… not look? I have to feed the baby.”
Ignat nodded silently and fixed his eyes on the road, on the white strip of light, giving her a little privacy, a bit of personal space in the cramped, diesel-scented cab.
“I’m not looking. But where am I taking you? The city’s coming up soon. Should I drop you off on the outskirts?” he asked again when she finished, and silence settled in the cab once more.
“Far from here…” came the same hopeless, weary reply. “Somewhere far away.”
“I’m going as far as Nizhny. Is that on your way?” He broke off, choosing his words carefully, afraid to scare her off. “Listen, do you need some kind of help? Not just a ride. Do you have family? Maybe I can take you to someone? To your parents? So they know you’re alive and safe.”
She gave a bitter, soundless laugh, and that laugh was so full of chilling despair, of such hopelessness, that Ignat felt physically sick.
“I don’t have parents. I’m an orphan. Grew up in a children’s home. I don’t remember my childhood at all, as if it never existed. A nanny at the orphanage, a kind, elderly woman, told me once that I just appeared on the doorstep, no one even understood where I’d come from. I was about three, they said. No papers, nothing…
I stood on the porch, silent, in a thin little dress. Later they saw a mark on my clothes — Zhenya N. So they started calling me Zhenya. They tried to find out who I was, where I came from. The official replies to their requests never matched. No one reported me missing, no one was looking.”
She grew up in the children’s home. Later she trained as a secretary. A friend helped her get a job in a small but reputable firm. That was how she met Mikhail. The director. He was older, more self-assured. She fell in love head over heels. He seemed so… dazzling. Brilliant. He courted her, brought flowers, took her to restaurants. Told her she was a real beauty, that she was one of a kind. For her—a girl from an orphanage, who had never known a drop of real affection in her life—it was like a fairy tale, like a dream.
“We got married. Everything was good, it seemed like it would always be that way. And then… lately he became… not himself. Came home late. Jumpy, aloof, closed off. He didn’t tell me anything. I thought he’d taken a mistress. I was jealous, cried into my pillow. And the baby had just been born, I had no strength for anything.”
She had finally worked up the courage to follow him. Went with the stroller to his office, stood a little off to the side, around the corner. So she could see the entrance, but no one would notice her. One of his colleagues, an acquaintance, saw her and hinted in conversation that Misha was preparing a surprise for her, a big surprise. She had calmed down, even cheered up, felt guilty about her suspicions.
“And sure enough,” she went on, “that evening he suddenly brought up our old dream—moving out of the city into a house. Our own place. So the baby would have it better, fresh air, nature. I was so happy, I believed him so much…”
She fell silent, swallowed a lump in her throat, looking at the sleeping child, at his eyelashes trembling in his sleep.
“I remember he handed me some paper, asked me to sign it. Said he was putting the house in my name, that it was a surprise so I’d feel secure about the future. I was so happy—and so stupid—I didn’t even read it, just signed at the bottom without looking. Scribbled my little squiggle.”
A week later he declared, firmly and without appeal:
“Pack your things. Tonight we get the keys to the house. I can’t wait to move. Take only what’s necessary. We’ll bring the rest later. I’ll hire a crew, they’ll pack and move everything. Don’t worry.”
“I packed the baby’s things, mine, the bare essentials, a couple of toys for Styopa. He picked us up after work. I could see he was nervous; his hands shook when he put the keys in the ignition. I thought it was from excitement, that he was as anxious as I was.”
“Let’s go,” he said, and his voice was tight, strange, almost unfamiliar. And again I decided he was just tired after a hard day. If only I’d stopped to think, to really look, everything might have been different… Completely different.”
They drove a long time. Daylight slowly faded, turning into twilight and then into thick, impenetrable night. The city was far behind them, its lights dissolved in the inky darkness. Misha turned off the highway onto a narrow, broken road that led into the forest, deep into the woods. The headlights picked out the trunks of pines from the dark, like black palisades blocking the way back.
“I was surprised we were going into such a wilderness. People usually build cottages closer to the city, for convenience. Then a vague but growing unease started creeping over me. My heart began to pound nervously.
‘Misha, why so far? And the road’s terrible… forest all around, the middle of nowhere, not a single streetlamp…’ I asked, trying to keep my voice from shaking.
‘At least it’s peaceful, quiet,’ he snapped, not looking at me, staring at the road. ‘We’ll be there soon. Calm down.’”
At last, ahead beyond the trees, some lights flickered—dim, muffled. They drove up to a tall, solid fence of dark, almost black wood topped with overhangs and coils of barbed wire that gleamed in the headlights. The gates were metal, massive, like on a fortress. Misha honked, and a minute later a side gate opened, letting them into a courtyard that looked like a prison yard.
They were met by a short, stocky man with a harsh, weather-beaten face and small, shiny bead-like eyes. He nodded silently to Misha, then looked her over with a cold, appraising gaze and let it slide over the child. The yard was large, paved with cobblestones. In the far corner, chained with thick chains, lay two huge, vicious-looking dogs. They didn’t bark, only rumbled softly, threateningly, following the new arrivals with eyes glowing in the dark.
The house itself was two-storied, built of dark timber. It seemed gloomy and unwelcoming; there was neither coziness nor warmth in it. Not the kind of place she had ever imagined living a happy family life in. Not the home she had dreamed of. The windows on the first floor were barred with heavy wrought-iron grilles. No comfort. Everything was solid, but somehow… alien. Like a fortress. Or a prison.
While she stood there staring in horror, Misha took their bags from the trunk and said curtly, harshly, “Come on.” They went into the entryway and then into a large, almost empty living room. The air was stale, smelling of dust, old tobacco and something else heavy and unpleasant she couldn’t identify. In the center of the room, in the only armchair by a cold, black fireplace, sat a man of about forty-five she had never seen before. He was dressed expensively but carelessly, and his cold, heavy gaze slid over her, lingered on the baby for a long time, then slowly, reluctantly shifted to Misha. She shivered under that gaze; fear gripped her.
“Her?” the stranger asked shortly, imperiously, without a single extra note in his voice.
Misha, eyes downcast, staring at the floor, nodded and answered in a hollow voice, like in a crypt:
“Yes… Just as we agreed.”
“We’re square.”
Her husband set their bags on the floor, turned, and with quick, hurried steps, without looking back, headed for the exit. She froze, stunned, unable to understand, to believe what was happening. It was a dream, a nightmare.
“Misha?” Her voice quivered, breaking into a whisper. “Where are you going? What’s happening?”
But he was already out the door. She heard the gate slam, heard the car engine start. The sound grew distant until it dissolved into the night. He had left. Left them. For good.
The stranger rose slowly from the armchair, like a predator. A crooked, lifeless smile appeared on his face, with no trace of warmth or humanity in it.
“Well then, Evgeniya,” he said, stretching out the words, and she realized with icy horror in every cell of her body that he knew her name. “Mishanya’s paid off his debt. Fair and square. You and the kid will live here… for now. And then we’ll see. Make yourself at home.”
Her world collapsed in a single instant. All the fragments fit together into a terrible picture. The paper she had signed… The trip… The cottage… The bags… None of it was a gift, not the fulfillment of a dream, but a deal. A payoff. A price. She understood it with soul-freezing clarity. She and her child had become a thing, a bargaining chip her husband had used to pay off what he owed. He had paid—and left without looking back once.
Middle of the story
Ignat listened without interrupting. His big, calloused hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white. He looked at the road, but in front of his eyes he saw that grim picture: the fortress-house, the man with icy eyes.
“And how did you…” he barely managed to get the words out. “How did you get away?”
Zhenya wiped her face with her sleeve; her shoulders stopped shaking, and a strange, detached firmness entered her voice.
“They left me alone. That man, the owner, went up to the second floor. The one with the dogs stayed in the hall, but he soon fell asleep; I could hear him snoring. The windows on the first floor were shut tight and barred. But I remembered… I’d seen, when we came in, that on the second floor one little window in the bathroom was open. It was small, right under the ceiling, but no bars. I guess they didn’t think anyone would try to get out through it.”
She paused, remembering, and a shadow of horror flitted across her face.
“I took Styopka, wrapped him in my coat, kept only the essentials with me. Went out into the corridor. The man was asleep in the armchair, a bunch of keys lying beside him. I was afraid to breathe. I tiptoed past him and went up to the second floor. In the bathroom there was a little cabinet. I dragged it over, climbed up, pushed the baby through that window and then… then I climbed out myself. The window was narrow; I scraped all the skin off my back and arms… There was nowhere to climb down—just darkness. I jumped. Fell into some bushes, thorny ones. I got up, grabbed Styopka, and just ran. Straight into the forest, into the dark, not caring about the path. Just away from that place. I heard the dogs start barking behind me, lights came on… But I didn’t look back. I ran as long as I could. Then I walked. I walked through the forest the entire day, until I came out to this highway.”
She finished and looked at Ignat with a resigned expression.
“Now you know everything. You can drop us off anywhere. I understand.”
Ignat was silent for several long minutes. Then he took a deep breath, and it sounded almost like a groan.
“Drop you off?” he finally said. “What are you talking about, girl… Where am I supposed to drop you? With a baby in your arms, in what you’re standing in, with nothing at all?”
He suddenly turned off at the next exit leading to a lonely roadside café.
“First you’re going to eat properly. Both of you. And then… we’ll see. You’re not alone in this world anymore.”
He bought her hot soup, cutlets with potatoes, and milk for the baby. He watched her eat, and something turned over inside him. He remembered his own daughter, just as fragile, remembered how he’d protected her. And this one—no one had ever protected her.
While they ate, Ignat stepped outside and made a few phone calls. His voice was quiet but firm.
An hour later they were back on the road. But now Zhenya had a bag of food and water on her knees, and for the baby Ignat had bought a pack of diapers and a new bottle at the café.
“Listen to me, Zhenya,” Ignat said, staring straight ahead at the road. “My sister lives in Nizhny. She’s a good person. Her husband’s a driver like me. They have their own house, one little room free. You’ll stay with them for a while. Get some sleep, get your strength back. Then… you’ll find a job. Get on your feet. I’ve already talked to her, she knows, she’s waiting.”
Zhenya looked at him, and at last the tears poured from her eyes—not the bitter ones, but quiet, relieving tears.
“Why?” she whispered. “Why are you doing this? It’s only trouble for you…”
“Because there’s no other way to live,” he answered simply. “And because you managed to get out. That means you were meant to. It means you and your son need to live. Really live.”
Beautiful ending
They drove all night. Ignat stayed silent, giving her time to cry, to calm down. And with the first rays of sun, gilding the edges of the clouds on the horizon, he began to sing softly. An old, long-forgotten song about a wide river, a free wind, and a faraway yet somehow very close home.
Zhenya listened, her cheek pressed against the cold glass, and for the first time in a long while she felt the heavy stone on her heart begin to melt, just a little. She looked at sleeping Styopka, at his little arms flung wide across the blanket, and thought that now he had a chance. A chance at a different life. Without fear, without betrayal.
And ahead, in the pinkish light of dawn, the lights of a big city were already visible. Not the one she had left in such terror, but another one. A new one. Where no one was looking for her. Where a simple room in someone’s kind home and a cup of hot tea on the table were waiting for her.
Ignat turned off the highway onto a city street. He glanced at Zhenya and smiled his rare, slightly embarrassed smile.
“Well, here we are. Home.”
She nodded, and in her eyes, instead of the former horror, a tiny but genuine spark of hope flickered to life. She took her son in her arms, held him tight to her chest, and drew a deep breath. It was her first breath of freedom. A breath of the air she had been missing all her life. And she knew that this road, though it would be hard, was her road. And she would walk it to the end. For herself. And for him