“I beg your pardon?” He stares at me, glassy-eyed.

“Why’s your chest bulging? Are you carrying bombs? I’ll have to inspect your chest.”

“I do not understand. There is no need.”

“No need?” My voice sounds rough, as if I had swallowed pebbles. “I’ve never seen anything like this before! You know I could’ve just shook you down while you were unconscious, right? But I have the decency to ask you for permission!”

No reply. This guy’s hiding something. I’ve dealt with these types enough to catch when someone’s being dense on purpose.

“You aren’t supposed to be—” I raise my voice, but then a section from a mythology I read about women popped up in my head. The best approach to dealing with a woman is by affection and persuasion. Pretty sure yelling and bellowing don’t fall under the same spectrum as affection, and neither of us enjoy me being so aggressive..

I stare at the protruding meat sacks on his chest and tell myself to be more cautious. The devil lives the still waters*. I don’t want to push this person too hard if he turns out to be a woman, turns into a dragon, and roasts me with his (her) fiery breath.

I sit down facing him, keeping a distance. “Look. All I’m saying is I’m not looking to harm you. I’m gonna give you shelter if you cooperate. You just have to tell me what those things are.”

“Why would you ask such a question? That is rather coarse of you.” His eyes dart away.

“Yeah, like not answering is polite. Sure, don’t tell me what they are. Let me warn you; I have a knack for solving mysteries.” I move closer. “Say, what happens if I squeeze hard on them?”

“You must not!” He jerks up.

“Why? Do they go kaboom like Semtex? Or do they go tick, tick, tick, tick like a time bomb?”

“They do not explode . . .”

“So what are they even for?”

“How should I know that?”

“Because they’re attached to you.”

“Your mouth is attached to you as well, but you do not . . . seem to know how to use it.” He shuts his eyes tight, turning away as if anticipating a blow.

“What did you say?”

“N-n-nothing. . .”

Just great. The moment I play nice, he shits on me. But this might be a good thing. When I carried him earlier, I didn’t notice camel humps or snake fangs or scrawny paws. He doesn’t have any of those!

What did I expect? Mythologies are the grand libraries of bullshit anyway. Asking nicely never works. The last time someone went through my stuff and I asked if he had asked me for consent, he punched me in the mouth. This won’t be any different. If he doesn’t respond well to persuasion, he’s not a woman. Problem solved.

“I’ll ask yes or no questions, and if you answer, I’ll get you some water. Okay?”

He says nothing.

I say, “Are those things on your chest called breasts?”

He nods.

What? No. Fuck. Why? You’re supposed to say no.

“Do you like to grow your hair long?” I ask, feeling like an absolute idiot staring at a person with hair longer than a bear’s dick.

He nods again. I gulp.

He’s cooperative. He seems truthful. There’s only one question left to ask.

I’m nowhere near ready for it.

“Are you going to ask me what I am?” Her voice is meek, but the words are clear.

“You know how to mind-read or something?”

“I-Well, I am not supposed to reveal my identity to anyone. But since you promised to give me shelter, I feel obliged to at least give you that much.”

“It’s the other way around, but okay.” No. This can’t be. But why here? Why now?

I don’t know how long I’ve stared at his breasts, but the more I do so in silence, the more awkward it gets. The question in my mind is so simple; so straightforward, but somehow I can’t turn it into words. The fact he’s saying nothing, eyes daggering to the ground only makes it worse.

“You’re a woman,” I mutter.

She nods.

“Holy shit.” And I slump to the ground.

The next two hours are pure silence.

* В тихом омуте черти водятся: Literally means ‘the devil lives in still water’. This is a proverb warning people to be aware of the silent and seemingly harmless.