His wrists and ankles were bound by chains. His once-proud mane of dark hair had all but disappeared, replaced by a circular bald patch atop his head and long, shaggy gray locks flowing down the back of his neck. Whereas once his face had maintained a close, clean shave, a beard had taken root at the tip of his chin, spurting forward in wild chunks of gray and white. He was wearing a bright blue hospital gown, the kind the patients wore in the psychiatric unit. It clung to his chest, where his bones formed a stepladder up to his neck. Down below, the gown was cut short at the thighs to reveal his bony white knees. Sergei had lost so much weight. Every few seconds, a hiccup emerged from his mouth. Sergei raised his chained hands in exhilaration. “Vladdy, my boy! Is it really you?” Vladimir was almost too stunned to speak. “Yes,” he said. “Oh, how long I’ve waited to see your face again. I always knew you’d return.”
