Agnieszka looked Piotr up and down—and for the first time in a long time, she felt neither fear nor confusion. Only a strange, icy calm. The rage inside stopped thrashing and formed into something heavy, compact, like a stone. “Get out,” she said suddenly, her voice firm. Piotr froze. He clearly hadn’t expected such a tone. Not a scream, not tears, not a plea—an order. “What did you say?” he asked slowly, narrowing his eyes. “Get out of my room. Now,” Agnieszka repeated, forcing herself to make each word clear.
He smiled crookedly and took a step toward her. “Do you even know who you’re talking to? You have a fever, you’re hysterical, you’re not communicating—” “I’m communicating better than ever,” she interrupted. “And if you don’t leave soon, I’ll call an ambulance and the police. Simultaneously.” There was no threat in it. Just a bare fact.” Piotr burst out laughing—loud, unpleasant. “Well, you scared me. Will you tell the doctors that my husband told me to dig up potatoes? They’ll laugh and go away.”
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