We hardly ever saw any cars in Estrov because nobody could afford to buy one, and anyway, there wasn’t anywhere to go. The black Lada probably belonged to one of the senior managers. Not that I was thinking about these things just then. The front door opened and my mother got out. Straightaway, I saw the fear in her eyes. She raised a hand in my direction, urging me to stay where I was, then ran around to the other side and helped my father out. He was wearing a loose white coat that flapped around his normal clothes, and I saw—with a sense of horror that was like a pool of black water sucking me in—that he had been hurt. The fabric was covered with his blood. His left arm hung limp. He was clutching his chest with his right hand. His face looked thin and pale and his eyes were empty, clouded by pain. My mother had her arm around him, helping him to walk. She at least had not been hurt, but she still looked like someone who had escaped from a war zone. There were streaks running down her face.
