Fyodor Kolyokov spread two blinds apart with his thumb and peered out the window. Light flickered across his eyes. Heather squirmed in her chair.
“Is it time or what?” she said.
Kolyokov appeared to weigh the question, rocking his head to the left — to the right.
“Well?”
“Ha,” he said. “She is dissipating.”
“Is that good?”
Kolyokov looked at her. “Not good, not bad,” he said. “Just—”
“Just? Just what?”
“Just next. The next thing.”