С днем рождения принцессаPJ burned the card in the firepit on the patio but not before they saw it, just because I ostriched the whole thing like some sort of naive waif, thinking if I squeezed my eyes shut, it might not be there in real life.
The card supposedly had a very simple message, a please have a good birthday dear and enjoy your cake kind of message, according to Caleb, the only one of us who can actually read colliquial Russian. I would have sent a photo of the message to the young doctor for translation but Caleb advised me not to waste his time.
I didn't think I would be, and I'd love to know the truth. Maybe the card actually says We're going to come and kidnap you afterall. Pack your shit, it's cold here in winters muhahah.
It could.
He assures me it doesn't or he would have taken steps already.
What steps? I ask him as we head outside with stacks of plates and cutlery for dinner outside.
Nevermind, Neamhchiontach.
No, tell me the steps.
There are no steps, Bridget. It was an innocuous card wishing you peace. I had Batman (he does not call Batman Batman in real life, don't worry) look at it to be certain.
He speaks Russian? What steps?
Caleb stops abruptly, looking at the sky for guidance (or maybe that's patience). I smash right into him, dropping the bread and butter plates and all of the knives and forks. Every single plate breaks and we both look at the stoneware carnage on the floor. I look back up at him.
What steps?