Vasara does not wait for Laima and her mom to turn the street corner. Pushing Zenia’s picture into her sling, she reaches one last time through the gaping hole and gropes in the other direction until she finds what she seeks. Her fingers close upon the cold metal, and she feels the weight of the key in her palm. With the key to the gate in her hand, she straightens her shoulders. The graveyard was Zenia’s. Now it is hers. Locking her out will never change that.

She checks the area before pulling the cart off to the side of the house and positioning it behind a cluster of elms. The rumble of a heavy engine draws near. Vasara ducks behind the cart, but it’s only a delivery van passing by. Grabbing two woolen blankets from her assortment of rags, she darts back to the cemetery gate and fumbles urgently to get the key in the lock. Don’t get stuck. Not now. Go on. The key slides in obediently, and the gate shows her the way with a friendly swing.

Vasara locks the gate from within and makes her way to the highest part of the cemetery wall, where she cannot be seen from the street. After cushioning the ground with a blanket and draping herself with another, she lets herself down with an audible sigh. Let them find me here! Nah. Never. The policija is too weak-livered to start searching among the dead.

The cemetery looks more forlorn than she has ever seen it before. Autumn winds have blown in layer upon layer of fallen leaves. They are piled up between the graves, competing with the spreading thicket, obscuring headstones and creating muddy, sodden mayhem.

At the squelch of mud, she starts. She peeks over the wall. A police car is parked by the curb, two uniformed men beside it.

Vasara listens to the quiet and hears the slam of car doors. The crunch of glass beneath boots. She senses rather than hears them, peering through the smashed window of her home and examining the yard. As they draw closer, the skin on her arms begins to crawl.

“Hey… come on!”

She hears a husky voice.

“Who are you going to handcuff over there…?”

A noncommittal laugh. “Guess we’re going for Baubas, eh? That evil bogeyman.”

A jangle of keys. “Okay. Back to the car. Bird’s flown the coop.”

She hears an engine revving and the squeal of their tires as they take off.

Vasara locks her hands behind her neck, cradling her head. That was close. She pulls out the vodka. A long swig. She wipes her lips.

Better. Warmth will course through her veins soon and she’ll feel her toes again. She rubs her eyes tiredly. She should have grabbed two socks for her red, chapped hands. She’ll fetch the cart soon. Then she’ll have her socks. But she’s so tired.

Her head drops to her chest and a hazy wave overtakes her. Through the fuzzy blackness, she wonders whether she isn’t as weak as the policemen. And if she hasn’t made a mistake. Surely the police station would be better than a cold graveyard. (Excerpted from Family First, Issue 623)