The one who seldom laughed and never cried, the one Uncle Misha called his 'little stone boy'.Yakov did not know why he never cried. The other boys, when hurt, would shed fat and sloppy tears. Yakov would simply turn his mind blank, the way the television screen turned blank late at night after the stations shut off. No transmission, no images, just that comforting white fuzz. Uncle Misha said, "They are all good boys. Excellent boys." Yakov looked at the other three boys. Pyotr had a jutting brow and shoulders perpetually hunched forward like a gorilla's. Stepan had odd ears, small and wrinkled, between which floated a walnut for a brain. Aleksei was sucking his thumb.

And I, thought Yakov, looking down at his stump of a forearm, I have only one hand. Why do they say we are excellent?Yet that was precisely what Uncle Misha kept insisting. And the woman kept nodding. These were good boys, healthy boys.

"Even their teeth are good!" pointed out Misha. "Not rotten at all. And look how tall my Pyotr is."

"That one there looks undernourished." Gregor pointed toYakov.

"And what happened to his hand?"

"He was born without it."

"The radiation?"

"It does not affect him otherwise. It's just the missing hand."

"It should pose no problem," said Nadiya. She rose from the chair. "We must leave. It's time."

"So soon?"

"We have a schedule to keep."

"But — their clothes-'

"The agency will provide-clothes. Better than what they're wearing now."

"Is it to happen so quickly? We have no time to say goodbye?"

A ripple of irritation passed through the woman's eyes. "A moment. We don't want to miss our connections."

Uncle Misha looked at his boys, his four boys, related to him not by blood, nor even by love, but by mutual dependence. Mutual need. He hugged each of the boys in turn.when he came toYakov, he held on a little longer, a little tighter. Uncle Misha smelled of onions and cigarettes, familiar smells. Good smells. But Yakov's instinct was to recoil from the closeness. He disliked being held or touched, by anyone.