Dima was the youngest of six boys, the baby who had arrived late for his mother, long after the doctor who passed through their village every summer had told her she wouldn’t have any more children. An unexpected blessing, his mother always said, as she held Dima in her arms and caressed him, while the others had gone off to do their chores.

An unwanted mouth to feed, his older brother Piotr mockingly said. Because Dima was so small, his siblings often left him out of their jokes, forgotten amidst the noisy quarrels of the house, and that was why, on that autumn night, while he sat by the sink scrubbing the last pots and pans his brothers had made sure to leave him, only he heard the incriminating thud from the barn doors.

Dima began to scrub harder, determined to finish his work and go to bed before anyone thought to send him out into the dark. He could hear their dog, Molniya, whining at the kitchen doorstep, begging for scraps and a warm place to sleep, as the wind rose into an angry howl.

Branches struck the windows. Mother lifted her head, the wrinkles around her mouth deepening. Her expression grew grim as if she could send the wind to sleep without food. “Winter is coming fast and stays for too long.” “Hmm,” said father, “just like your mother.” Mother kicked him with her boot.