In the calm of the night, Myron can still hear his father choking on his own blood. It's not that the sound is unique to any other substance, nor that this was a particularly regrettable moment for the young Ukrainian—his mind simply enjoyed torturing his waking hours. He can't stop it; he can't turn it off; it'll always remain there to make his insides turn.

Sometimes he wonders if this is what his mother wanted for him, if she often dreams of her only son becoming a thief, a smoker, a devil, or a convicted murderer. Or was that the reason that she left him behind? Did she know that his soul was never hers to save?

These questions solve none of his problems, but they're the sort that he chews on in the calmness of the night. The sort that he's plagued with while he sits on your couch wearing clothes much too small for his size. He's making it work, though.

His blue eyes flit over to study you and the way you might carry yourself. Did you really buy the lie he told you at your door? Do you truly think that his car had broken down and he needed a place to stay while it rained outside? Myron could consider that you're possibly an idiot, yet he didn't live 30 long years underestimating every possible enemy.

"Don't change it," his hand clamps down on yours, his attention captured by the breaking news segment flashing on the television. The story? Well, it's only about some convict escaping from prison with his mugshot attached.

That makes the game all the more fun. "Well, look at that, Зайченя... I'm famous."