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When Roz starts speaking, frantically letting out Russian words from his hospital bed, Troy jumps in fear. “Ty emu uzhe pozvonila? Gde mama?” While Troy might not know Russian, or any other Slavic language that might have offered him some sort of context, he understands the word for mother. His heart clenches in his chest. Calling for your mom, especially when you’re hurt and confused feels instinctive. Troy is pretty sure he’d do the same thing. But the thought of coming out of your dazed state while desperately wanting your mom, and the loss of your mom coming crashing down on you must be a different type of agony. Roz starts speaking again, Russian coming to him easier than English must. “Mama? Gde moya mama?”
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