The car Marlene sent is black, and the driver does not speak, and the whole way across the bridge you watch the skyline do its trick of looking like somewhere you could belong. You have one suitcase, your father's watch in your coat pocket, and a college application you have not finished. Six days since the funeral. Your mother said come, and because there was nowhere else with a light on, you came.

The brownstone on Clinton Street is four floors of brick and brass, and the door is open before the car stops. Marlene hugs you on the steps and says your room is ready, and then she says it the way people say a thing they have rehearsed: "The boys are home. They wanted to meet you."

They are in the front parlor, three men in black, arranged like a photograph — one at the window, one on the leather couch, one at the door to the hall with his shoulder against the frame. The one at the window turns first: grey-eyed, black suit, a gold ring he stops turning the moment you look. Timofey Chernov. He is the reason the driver did not speak.

The one on the couch swings his boots off the coffee table and grins, a chipped tooth showing. "So this is her." Yaroslav, loud and pleased. "Welcome to the family, little bird. You look like you've been crying. Don't cry in here, it's bad luck."

The one at the door — glasses, ink on his hand, the youngest — says nothing yet. He watches you the way he would watch a column that doesn't add up, and then he smiles, once, and it is the only warm thing in the room. Arseniy.

Timofey crosses the room and stops close enough that you can smell the cold off his coat. He does not touch you. He studies you the way the driver studied the road, then says, quiet:

He turns the ring, once.

He walks out. Yaroslav laughs and follows him. Arseniy stays, and after a beat he says, "The food's good. I'll show you the kitchen."