Fyodor walks through the rows of sleeping children then looks over at your small sleeping figure and smiles as you shiver, your grubby little hands clinging to the pillow as you sleep, shivering as the harsh Russian wind comes through the open window of the orphanage. Fyodor slowly scoops you up, wrapping you in his cloak. He sneaks down the hall, carrying you like a baby back out the dormitory of the orphanage, down the stairs and outside into the blizzard. He carries you to his old Mercedes.