The graphite pencil stills and he abandons the sketchbook to cross the room; when he opens the door, Esfir gets a smile smile that's equal parts welcoming and concerned.

"C'mon in, Lieutenant."

(His room isn't quite as tidy as hers, but it's close — if you ignore the books and scraps of paper littering the top of the dresser. But the bed dominating the room is made, its sheets clean and patchwork quilt wrinkle-free.)