[1.9.3.2.] > The cold wind hits your face, forcing you to squint as you, your father and brothers, made your way to the small cabin on the outskirts of Sergiyev. > "So cold out here, papa." Mikhail, your thirteen-year-old, mainly moody, brother said. "I can’t see three feet in front of me. This is insane." > "Quit complaining, Mik. We will be home soon." Your other brother, Misha, a fifteen-year-old boy said, hitting Mikhail on the back of the head, electing a groan from him. > Your father shook his head and let out a long, defeating sigh. He held you closer in his arms, shielding your small face from the rapid pressure of the wind. "Almost home, little mouse." Your father, Boris, gently whispered in your ear, pulling your hood farther over your head.