Текст книги "The Last Oracle (2008)"

Автор книги: James Rollins

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Текущая страница: 25 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

Monk pointed to the center screen, recognizing the room. It was the heart of

Operation Saturn. Only now, black water poured like a river out of a hole in the roof and swirled down a shaft in the floor.

It's already under way, he said hollowly. We're too late.

On a neighboring screen, Monk spotted the mining chamber where he'd left

Konstantin and the others. The kids were sprawled in tangled piles. The view was too grainy to tell if they were still alive. Had the radiation somehow reached them?

A well of despair swept through him.

As Gray fished out a sat-phone, Monk stared at the others: Kowalski and Rosauro.

Monk sought any glimmer of recognition. There was none. Who were these people?

If they were friends, shouldn't they jar some reaction from him?

As he studied the others, Pyotr reached a hand toward the center screen and placed his palm on it.

What's he doing? Gray asked with the phone at his ear.

Monk turned his attention. Pyotr?

The boy stared deeply at the image on the screen.

Kowalski spoke to the left. Hey! The train's moving over here!

Monk glanced over. The train slowly shifted down the tracks, sparking with electricity. The tunnel must still have power, not that they had any control over it.

Is the kid doing that? Kowalski asked. Moving it with his mind?

Monk held his breath, then let it out slowly. No, he said and stared at the receding train, suddenly remembering. There's someone else out there.

Who? Gray asked.

As Pyotr's hand touched the screen, he cast his senses out into the tunnel, stretching to his limits. Fired by stolen talents, steel and concrete could not stop his reach. As voices faded behind him, he dove into the dark tunnel and swept toward the one flaming star that remained inside, a great heart, one he had loved all his young life.

Pyotr found her cowering in the train, rocking. She had hid out of sight of the cameras because he had asked it of her. She was part of the pattern. But for the moment, nothing mattered. He hurt, deeper than he'd ever been hurt. He simply needed her. Reaching her old heart, he cupped the flame gently and sent her all his love and his need.

She knew he was there and hooted gently, reaching to the empty air. In the dark tunnel, they wrapped around each other, sharing emotions at a level deeper than anyone else.

It was one of their secrets.

He had known the truth the moment they'd first touched hands. Pyotr knew the reason so many children loved Marta, came to her for comfort, to cry in her arms or to simply be held.

She had a talent, unknown to her keepers, a strong gift of empathy, like Pyotr.

Two kindred spirits. So he kept her secret, and she kept his.

But it wasn't their only secret.

There was a darker one, wrapped in terror, revealed in a way neither understood but both knew to be true. From the moment they first saw each other, they knew they would die together.

Gray watched the train accelerate down the tunnel toward the site of Operation

Saturn. Monk had given him a thumbnail version of the purpose.

But who's in the train? he asked. Can we communicate with them?

Monk held the boy as his small fingers were splayed on the screen. I think

Pyotr is already there. The boy knows how to operate the train.

But who's on the train?

A friend.

On the screen displaying the heart of Operation Saturn, the train pulled into view at the edge and braked. A dark shape hopped out of the front car and loped into the chamber.

Is that a monkey? Kowalski asked, stepping back.

Ape, Rosauro corrected with a sigh, as if she was tired of correcting the man.

A chimpanzee.

It's Marta, Monk said.

Gray heard the pain in his voice. A storm of radiation had to be surging through there. The figure moved slowly, slipping, knuckling awkwardly, already sick.

What's she trying to do? Gray asked.

Trying to save us all, Monk answered.

Pyotr stayed with Marta. He pulled her flame close to his, not enough to be consumed, but so he could feed her his strength, let her know what she had to do, that she wasn't alone. Likewise, he caught glimpses through her eyes, through her sharper senses.

He saw the column of roaring water. He felt a heat weakening and burning Marta.

The air smelled like rotting fish and frightened both of them, a flow of dark water, from their shared nightmares.

Deadlier than any river.

But they faced it together.

Marta skirted around the gaping hole that swallowed the water so thirstily. It had to be stopped.

There was only one way.

Pyotr knew and told Marta. Konstantin had explained in detail how all the equipment worked: about the explosive charges, about the radio transmitters, about the giant silo doors.

He had also told Pyotr about the lever.

Marta needed no help. She spotted the rod of steel behind a piece of equipment.

It could close the silo doors and stop the flow into the heart of the world.

Pyotr felt the soft hoots of fear coming from her. He felt them under his own ribs.

You can do it, Marta

She struggled, her skin burned, her fur fell like pine needles, her knuckles blistered in contact with the spray of water on the rock.

Pyotr held her flame and willed her strength.

She reached the lever. It was tilted close to the floor. It needed to be raised straight up. She hunched a shoulder under it, gripped the length with both hands, and heaved with her legs.

The steel would not move.

As death flowed behind her in a burning current, Pyotr felt the strain in her back, in her legs, in her heart.

Her flame flickered in his hands.

Marta

But the lever would not move.

Monk watched Marta struggle with the lever. She was too weak. It would not budge. Pyotr began breathing hard, sharing the old chimpanzee's fear and pain.

Why won't it move? Gray asked.

C'mon, you damn monkey! Kowalski yelled.

Monk leaned closer, placing his own palm on the screen. He tried to remember the brief glimpse into the room as he had hurried past. As he strained, a sharp jab of electric pain shot through his head. Images from another time and place flashed.

a man covered in coal soot a plunging ride in an ore car a white grin against dusty skin that's a boy! just like, Daddy

Then it was gone.

Monk struggled to retain something, but like a dream upon waking, memory began to dissolve through his fingers. Why did that particular memory dredge up?

Buried in it must be something important.

As the memory faded, he caught a glimpse of that coal-dust-covered man slowing the ore car by squeezing the

Hand brake! he gasped out.

He flashed back to the brief peek into the mine site before. He pictured the lever. It'd had a handgrip at its end.

Monk turned to Pyotr. He leaned and whispered in his feverish ear. Marta must reach to the end of the lever. She must squeeze the handle. Then it will move for her.

Pyotr continued to stare, as if deaf to his words, and maybe the boy truly could not hear. Monk had to get him to listen.

Seeming to understand his frustration, the woman Rosauro stepped next to him.

How are they communicating? Telepathically?

No. I think empathically. Sharing emotions. I've seen him do it with her before. Just not at such a distance.

Then you'll have to reach him the same way.

Monk glanced at her, as if she were a madwoman.

Gray spoke. Rosauro's specialty is neurology. Listen to her.

The woman spoke slowly. Empathy is all about sensation and tactility. You might be able to reach them the same way. Offer something that comforts him. It may open a path.

Monk pictured Pyotr and Marta. They had been always touching, rubbing, grazing against each other, but Monk remembered what brought the boy the greatest sense of security and comfort.

Shifting, he wrapped his arms around Pyotr as he had seen Marta do so often. He felt the boy's heart race like a hummingbird's. Rocking the boy very gently,

Monk huffed in his ear and whispered what must be done.

He willed it with all his heart.

Squeeze the hand brake

Pyotr stayed with Marta as she struggled with the lever then felt a familiar warmth coming from behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and found a strong heart there, casting a fierce flame. He stared into that fire and sensed what must be done as much as he heard it.

He turned back to Marta and clasped to her, letting her know, too.

But his friend trembled and burned, growing so weak.

Please

She hooted, scared, but one of her large hands slid up the lever and found the grip there. Long fingers wrapped around it and squeezed. Then she heaved again, shouldering the lever and pushing with her legs.

The lever moved, but it was still heavy. With shaking limbs, she fought it straight up and shoved it back. Something snapped loudly.

A great grind of gears sounded.

Exhausted and spent, Marta slumped to the ground.

She did it! Gray said.

On the screen, the hole in the floor began closing, snipping off the stream with a steel iris. The river of water, no longer able to drain below, flooded into the mining chamber.

The chimpanzee was flushed out of the room and into the tunnel, but more and more water followed. Though clearly exhausted and burned, she gained her feet and swung atop the train car. As black water rose around her, she loped back and forth across the roof, scribing a path of panic and distress.

Gray's heart went out to the poor creature.

Get that damned monkey out of there, for Christ's sake! Kowalski bellowed. He slammed a fist on the broken control board.

But there was nothing they could do. The doors were jammed, and water was swiftly filling the tunnel, which was sealed at both ends. Even if they could open the doors, the radiation level would kill them all. And ultimately, the chimpanzee had already been exposed to many times the lethal dosage.

Rosauro turned her back and stepped away, covering her mouth with concern.

Finally, the old chimpanzee settled to her haunches, hugging her knees. She began to rock. She knew what was coming.

Monk clutched the boy, a single tear running down his cheek.

In his arms, the boy rocked, too, in exact synch with his friend in the tunnel.

Pyotr stayed with Marta as the waters rose. Her heart flashed and swirled in fear. She'd always known the dark water would kill her. He held her now, as she had done with him so many times in the past. He wrapped his warm arms around her and pulled her tight. They rocked together one last time, two hearts sharing one flame.

Marta knew his secret, too.

She hooted softly and leaned her cheek against him.

Pyotr

I love you, Marta

As the waters rose to consume his friend, Pyotr looked into the dark sea that filled him, shining with seventy-seven bright lights, swirling around a brighter fire that was his own heart. One of his teachers had told him how planets circled suns, trapped in their orbits.

He understood.

He knew by consuming those stars he could never let them go. This was no nightmare where he stole only a little of their skill. He had crossed a line of no return. As he stared, he saw those stolen lights grow infinitesimally dimmer.

He was burning them up, consuming his friends, his sister.

There was only one way to let them go.

It was the other reason he came to Marta.

He needed her.

Pyotr no

You must

He felt her hands reach tentatively to that bright light inside his dark sea.

Her long warm fingers wrapped around his own heart.

Pyotr

But she knew. For the others to live, there was only one path. The others were trapped in his orbit, and if left unchecked, he would burn through them all. The only way to free them was to take away the sun that held them. Then the stars could fly back and return to where they belonged.

So Marta squeezed and squeezed as dark waters rose around her. Focused on him, she was no longer scared. As they rocked, she closed her fingers tenderly, but it still hurt.

Then just before Pyotr's light fully died, he reached to a single star in that dark sea, slightly brighter still than the rest.

Sasha, he whispered and told his sister a secret.

The boy suddenly slumped in his arms. His small hand fell away from the screen.

He saw Marta's body get washed from the top of the train and swirl off into the darkness of the tunnel.

Monk lowered the boy to the floor. Pyotr?

The boy stared blindly toward the ceiling, pupils dilated. Monk checked for a pulse. He found one but barely. The boy's chest rose and fell.

Overhead, small cries and screams echoed down. The other children. They were waking, rising to find a room full of dead bodies.

Gray pointed. Rosauro, Kowalski, go up and help them!

Monk glanced to the grainy image from the other end of the tunnel. He watched kids stirring, others already standing. He saw Konstantin help Kiska sit up.

They were okay.

What about the boy? Gray asked.

Monk sat on the floor and cradled his thin body. Pyotr breathed, his blood pumped, but Monk stared into his blank eyes and knew the boy was gone.

Pyotr why?

Gray joined him and placed a hand on his shoulder. Maybe it's shock. Maybe with time

Monk appreciated the offer of hope, but he knew the truth. As he had held the boy, he had felt the child let go. Monk's gaze returned to the screen full of stirring children. Monk knew. Pyotr had sacrificed his life for them, for all his brothers and sisters.

Gray settled to his haunches next to him, keeping vigil with him.

The stranger seemed like a good man, and in this quiet moment alone, Monk felt a certain comfort around the guy. Not a memory, just a sensation that he could drop his guard without fear.

So Monk felt no shame as tears rolled heavily and he rocked Pyotr one last time, now just an empty shell of a boy.

22

September 28, 4:21 P. M.

Washington, D. C.

Painter crossed through the rabble of tents and wagons covering the national

Mall. The Gypsy encampment filled the grassy fields and long meadows of the

Mall. The tents were a mix of traditional structures made of hazel rods thrust into the ground and covered in sailcloth, and more modern tents, fresh from a sporting goods store. The wagons were just as diverse, from simple structures to massive homes with smoking chimneys resting on tall painted wheels.

The Romani had come from all around the world to this great gathering. Horses were corralled in makeshift pens, children ran throughout, music rang out, great bouts of laughter echoed. And more and more were arriving each day.

The president had an official thank-you ceremony scheduled for the end of the week. Nothing like saving someone's life to get them to extend a grateful hand of hospitality. Not to mention saving the world.

Painter followed a path through the chaos as dogs barked and children scampered out of his way. Tourists also shared the crooked alleyways and narrow bazaars, buying trinkets, having their fortunes told, or merely ogling the merry mayhem.

Painter glanced up at the Washington Monument to help align himself and continued onward.

Stepping around a corner, a space opened in front of him, backed by one of the largest and most elaborately decorated wagons. Its wooden doors stood open.

Painter spotted a cozy home with a raised double bed, cabinets brightly painted and lacquered in yellows and reds. There was even a small stove with a fancifully carved mantelpiece.

On the steps leading up to the wagon, Painter found Luca sitting with Gray, deep in conversation. The commander's arm was still in a sling. A few steps away,

Shay Rosauro was playing a game of daggers with a group of Gypsy men. One of her blades whistled through the air and hit the bull's-eye, knocking off an opponent's knife. From their plaintive calls for mercy, she must be soundly besting them.

Off to the side, Painter was surprised to see Elizabeth and Kowalski. The woman must have just returned from India to attend the ceremony. She was working with both Romani historians and Indian archaeologists to unearth the flooded Greek temple site.

Painter glanced to the right and spotted the banner across the front facade of the Museum of Natural History. It displayed a Greek mountain temple with a prominent capital epsilon in the center, announcing the upcoming exhibit about the Oracle of Delphi. With all the publicity of late about the archaeological discovery, tickets were already sold out for months in advance, many bought by the Gypsies here, eager to learn more about the origin of their clans.

Luca spotted Painter's arrival and stood. The Gypsy was dressed in loose pants with a thick belt and matching black boots, along with an open vest over a long-sleeved embroidered shirt. Ah, Director Crowe! Welcome!

Painter offered a bow of his head to the clan leader. Nais Tuke, he thanked him in the Romani tongue.

Gray also stood. Like Kowalski, the commander was dressed casually in jeans and a light jacket. Over the past days, they had all found themselves coming here.

It had been a long couple of weeks of funerals and grim meetings. Painter wandered here almost every night with Lisa. They would stroll through the camp, in each other's arms, not talking, but listening to the songs and laughter as they passed families gathered around candle-lit suppers. Painter took solace in this fervent and bright reminder of the fullness of life. Painter also found the shared songs and communal camaraderie echoed back to his own childhood, to the tribal festivals on the Mashantucket reservations. It did feel like coming home if just a bit.

But today's gathering was more formal and practical.

They all crossed to a nearby plank table. A pair of massive draft horses were penned nearby.

As they sat, Gray asked, So how did the meeting go?

Luca stared at him with bright eyes.

Painter had just returned from a meeting with representatives from the State

Department, the Russian embassy, and several child welfare organizations. The status of seventy-seven children was the point of contention. There were many claims on them.

The Russians were happy to concede all authority over to us, Painter began.

They have enough to clean up as it is. The latest radiological studies from the joint nuclear task force suggest that the partial flooding of Lake Karachay into the groundwater, while locally disastrous and requiring evacuation of lands for miles downstream, will not prove globally catastrophic. The floodgates were closed in time.

Gray looked relieved. And the children?

Painter had visited the hospital this morning. An entire wing of George

Washington University Hospital had been cordoned off to handle the children flown in from Russia. The neurology team had spent the last weeks slowly and meticulously removing the implants. As the chief neurologist had originally conjectured, the extraction was a delicate but not exceptionally complicated procedure. The last child had her implant removed a couple of days ago. They were all doing well.

Testing shows some savant talent remains in the children but at a substantially weakened level, Painter said. Whatever communion was shared at the end seemed to have burned out the foundations of the neurological structure that produced their prodigious talent. But contrarily, the change also seemed to lessen their autistic presentation. The children have shown remarkable improvement. Still, whoever takes on the mantle of fostering these children will have to concede to a supervised monitoring of their health status, along with regular psychological evaluations, both in regard to their talents and to their general mental health.

Painter stared at Luca, who remained stoic, but his eyes shone with hope.

Painter finally smiled. But the unanimous consensus of the panel is that the children will be released to Gypsy families for that fostering.

Luca pounded a fist on the table. Yes!

His loud reaction earned a whinnied complaint from one of the draft horses and an equally firm stamp of a large hoof.

Painter spent another half hour going over further details, which helped sober the man but failed to dim the light in the Gypsy's eyes. Finally they all stood and began to disperse.

Elizabeth headed out, with Kowalski at her elbow.

Now that you're back in town, Kowalski mumbled to her, running a palm over his shaved scalp. Would you want Maybe we could ?

Gray winced at the man's efforts and nodded for Painter to move to the side.

This isn't going to be pretty.

What is it, Joe? Elizabeth asked, an eyebrow lifted curiously at the large man.

He stammered, cursed under his breath, then straightened. Do you want to go out on a date?

Smooth, Painter thought, suppressing a grin.

Elizabeth shrugged and led Kowalski out. You mean a second date, right?

Kowalski's brow crinkled like a washboard.

I think being shot at, kidnapped, irradiated, and saving the world classifies at least as a first date.

Kowalski tripped along next to her, his mind catching up at about the same pace.

So you'll go?

Elizabeth nodded. As long as you bring the cigars.

Kowalski grinned. I got a whole box of aw, crap! He stopped and stared down at his shoes. His left foot had landed squarely in a pile of horse manure. These are my brand-new Chukkas!

Elizabeth hooked his arm under hers and headed off. It'll wash off.

But you don't understand! The leather is hand polished by

The pair disappeared into the throng.

Gray shook his head. Kowalski's got a date. I think hell's just gotten a little bit colder.

Painter and Gray headed out toward the Smithsonian Castle. Both of them had a ton of work still to do. Sigma command remained in disarray, both politically and structurally. They'd lost some key people during the initial assault, and one entire level remained cordoned off due to the firestorm. Repairs and inspections of the infrastructure were still under way.

But politically things were far dicier. They had managed to capture the neurologist Dr. James Chen, one of the Jasons involved with Mapplethorpe and

McBride. Under interrogation, he was helping them weed out the corrupt Jasons from the legitimate scientists working for the Defense Department. But

Mapplethorpe was another matter. He had his fingers throughout Washington's intelligence agencies. It was still unclear if he had been operating solely as a rogue agent or if there were members of the Washington establishment who had supported the man's action. As a result, intelligence camps were circling their wagons, protecting themselves but still pointing fingers.

Even toward Sigma.

So vultures circled, but Painter had the backing of a grateful president. It would take work, but they'd get things running smoothly before long. In fact,

Painter was scheduled to meet Sean McKnight's replacement tomorrow, the new interim head of DARPA. The president initially offered Painter the position, but he had declined. Sigma needed some continuity. As the joint brainchild of

Archibald Polk and Sean McKnight, Painter could not abandon Sigma.

Painter glanced at Gray. I assume you'll be spending all day at the hospital tomorrow.

He nodded. Kat will need company.

Monk Kokkalis's surgery was scheduled for six in the morning. An MRI revealed what had been done to Monk in the Russian lab, but it remained unknown if the damage could ever be reversed. The Russians had wired a microchip into Monk's basolateral amygdala. The neurologists believed the chip had induced and maintained a fluid amnesia. It was a technique already being investigated using chemicals, specifically propranolol as a beta-blocker to erase especially strong memories of trauma. The Russians had been experimenting on Monk, using the biotechnological equivalent.

The surgery had been delayed until Monk finished a series of antiradiation treatments. The neurologists used the extra time to study Monk's case, but they still could not say if he'd ever get his memory back especially with the other result found during the MRI. In order to install the chip, a small section of Monk's cerebral cortex had been removed.

Painter recalled the horror on Gray's face upon learning that and his dismayed words: First his hand, now a section of his brain it's like Monk is slowly being whittled away.

Has there been any indication that Monk recognizes Kat? Painter asked.

Gray shook his head. The doctors have mostly kept her away. They believe that, while the chip is still in his head, further stress on his memory, like the emotional connection with Kat, might actually cause more damage than good.

Still, she visited him.

He nodded. She had to. She went into the room with a group of nurses. Monk conversed with them, but he had no reaction upon seeing Kat. Nothing at all. It practically destroyed her. She has Monk back, but he's still lost to her.

Then we'll have to pray for the best.

September 29, 6:21 P. M.

George Washington University Hospital

The man woke into a room too bright. It stung his eyes and pounded deep into the back of his head. Nausea followed, accompanied by a swirl of details. He swallowed hard a few times and forced his vision to steady.

A slim woman in a blue smock patted his hand. There you go, Mr. Kokkalis. Just breathe. She turned away. He's coming around more fully this time.

The spinning settled. The pounding of the drum inside his head slowed to a dull pressure. He found himself in a hospital room, remembering in bits and pieces.

The operation. He lifted an arm and found it strapped to a plastic splint through which intravenous lines dripped both clear saline and a unit of blood.

To the side, monitors beeped and whirred.

Monk tried to move his head, but his neck ached, and a tube ran down from a cap atop his head.

A series of doctors came through, shining lights into his eyes, making him do simple motor tests, judging his ability to swallow with ice chips, and performing other cranial nerve function tests. After about ten minutes, they drifted away, chattering about his case, leaving two people standing at the foot of his bed.

Monk recognized the man. Gray , he said hoarsely, his throat still raw from the endotracheal tube.

The man's eyes brightened.

Monk knew what they all hoped, what he hoped, but he shook his head. He knew the man only from the chaos in Russia. A striking woman in jeans and a loose blouse leaned next to him, her auburn hair down to her shoulders. Her emerald eyes searched Monk for some answer. But he didn't even know the question.

Gray touched her elbow. It may be too soon, Kat. You know that. The doctors said it might take months.

She turned slightly to the side and wiped her eyes. I know, she said, but it sounded like a moan.

With his senses tuned sharp by a trailing edge of nausea, Monk caught a scent in the air, familiar, spiced yet musky. No memory came with it, but his breathing grew heavier. Something something about

We should let him rest, Gray said and guided the woman away. We'll come back in the morning. It's been a long day. You should be getting her home anyway.

Gray nodded to a blue stroller behind them. A small child slept, nestled in blankets, head capped like Monk's, eyes closed, a pursed button of a mouth.

Monk's eyes locked on the baby. Staccato flashes burst into existence out of nothingness.

tiny fingers curled around his finger walking down a long, dark hall, tired, rocking the small figure in his arms little kicking feet as he changed a diaper

Just snippets. No coherency. But unlike before, there was no pain, only a soothing brightness that did not fade this time.

Out of that glow, he found a small sliver of himself.

She's her name The two turned to her. It's Penelope.

The woman stared at the child, back to him. Her entire form shook as teats spilled in shining streaks of joy. Monk

She rushed to his side, falling over him. She leaned and kissed him gently, her hair draped over them like a tent.

He remembered.

The taste of cinnamon, soft lips

He still did not know her name, but a surge of love swelled through him that drew tears to his own eyes. Maybe he would never know her name, not truly, but Monk knew one thing with all his heart: if she'd let him, he would spend the rest of his life learning who she was all over again.

7:01 P. M.

Gray headed down the hospital corridor, leaving Kat and Monk some privacy. While here, he wanted to check on one last patient. He crossed over to the children's ward. He showed his identification to an armed guard who protected the wing.

Once through, he passed several wards and smaller rooms. The walls were painted with balloons and cartoon animals. He passed a tall boy in hospital pajamas. He was walking with a smaller girl. Both their heads were shaved on one side. They were chatting enthusiastically in Russian.

All the children seemed to be recovering from their ordeal.

That is, all except one.

He crossed down another long corridor to a private room at the very end. The door was open. He heard voices inside.

Gray knocked softly and entered. The room held a single bed and a small play area with a yellow plastic table and a set of children's chairs around it. He found Dr. Lisa Cummings standing inside, filling out a chart. With her medical background, she was assisting the surgeons and doctors, while keeping Painter updated on status reports and abreast of any problems.

Sasha sat at the table, coloring in her book. She wore a pink bonnet that covered her shaved head.

Mr. Gray! the girl called to him and popped out of her chair like a jackrabbit and ran over to him. She hugged his leg.

He patted her shoulder.

Sasha came here as often as Gray, visiting her brother.

Pyotr sat in a wheelchair by the window, staring out at the growing twilight. He sat like a mannequin. Upright, stiff, unresponsive.

Any change? Gray asked and nodded to the chart in Lisa's hands.

Some actually. He's now taking food by spoon. Baby food. It's like he's infantilized. The doctors are hoping that over time, he may grow into his body.

Gray hoped they were right. The boy had saved the world and sacrificed everything to do it.

Gray, if you can put the boy to bed, we'll let you have some time alone with him.

Gray nodded.

C'mon, Sasha, let's go back to your room.

Wait! She let go of Gray's leg and ran to Pyotr.

Say good night to Pyotr, then we have to go, Lisa insisted.

Sasha kissed her brother on the cheek, then came running back to Gray and lifted her arms toward him.