Through the grimy window, Boris can see the houses—small, sun-baked boxes with dusty yards and chain-link fences. A single dog lies panting in the shade of a porch, too hot to even lift its head. The streets are empty. They're always empty.

Home. Or what passes for it. The house his father rented is three blocks down, a pale yellow rectangle with a cracked driveway and a dying cactus by the front step. The windows are dark. No car in the driveway. Mr. Pavlikovsky is still at the mine.

For a long moment, Boris just stands there. The silence is almost loud. A fly buzzes past his ear. Somewhere in the distance, a screen door slams.