Summary:

"Come in.” the boy says impatiently, his Russian enviably flawless.

“Sorry.” Shane mutters back. He’s still working on his vocabulary, but years of listening to Ilya muttering in Russian whenever they were together has given him a pretty good ear for the accent.

“You speak Russian?” the boy demands in rapid Russian. “Do you know what’s going on? Where am I? Where’s my Mama? Who is this fucker?”

“Slowly, please. I am learning. Say it again, please.” Shane replies with deliberate care, stepping into the hotel room and closing the door. “And don’t say fucker.”