Excerpt from All That Is Solid Melts into Air by Darragh McKeon, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

He takes in the kid, measuring everything. Fucking pathetic really: sprawly limbs, a body that looks like it was made from spare parts, angled joints, everything at a slant. Ivan's father taught him to stand square, be grounded. Another lesson to be thankful for. When his father speaks, Ivan listens. A man who went to war.

"There's a difference, though, between our fathers. Know what it is?"

Calmness glazes Ivan's eyes. Yevgeni can see his own reflection in them, the vague shape of his hair. The moment turns, irrevocably. He takes a breath, a fleeting image of his tears stored in a small, dark reservoir near his brain. His words create a surface ripple as he speaks.

"No. What?"

Ivan grasps Yevgeni's wrist with his other hand. A fist around his finger, another around his wrist.

"Mine came back."

Silence. Stillness. A jerk from Ivan, his lower lip clamped between his teeth.

The sound of a branch snapping.

Yevgeni doesn't cry out and he manages to be proud of this—in the middle of the pain—to let out a sound means they'll see him again, maybe next week. These are the rules.

A station guard walks up, asks their names. Yevgeni is bent over, hand folded into his stomach, cheeks puffed. The guard repeats his question and they answer him. "Pavel." "Yuri." They know better than to give their real names. They look at him blankly: "So what, no problems." Alek scuffs a shoe on the floor, tugs at his crotch through his pocket. Yevgeni raises the good arm to the man. "I'm fine," the gesture says.

"He's got some cramp. We're just waiting on him." Ivan says this. Alek hangs back in these situations. This is why Ivan is Ivan and Alek is Alek.

The man walks off. Alek gives Yevgeni a final ear flick, a little bonus pain, and they make for the platform as the train pulls in.

Lazy-eye fucker.

Yevgeni's tears come as they saunter away, overflowing the lip of the reservoir.

He stumbles forward, away from the arch, breath leaking from him, saliva bubbling down his chin. He wants to go somewhere dark to hide, maybe to sleep, but there's no place to be alone in this city. Even if he went home and locked himself in the bathroom, there'd be a fist banging on the door. He might get five minutes of peace. Definitely no more than ten. People living in each other's lives. In his life. Sharing his bath, his toilet. His mother tells him he's lucky to have his own bed. She says this to him and he doesn't know what to reply. Maybe his bed will be the next thing. Maybe he'll have to curl up beside a stranger someday soon. He never knows when the rules will change again.

Yevgeni tucks the wounded hand under his jacket. The pain has its own heartbeat. He cradles the hand inside his jacket like it's not a part of him, it's something else, a wounded bird, an abandoned kitten. He feels an urge to let out a whimper, to give voice to the stricken hand, but what if his test isn't over yet? There's always someone who might hear.

Mr. Leibniz, his teacher, will be waiting. Yevgeni can see the old man sitting on the piano stool, looking out into the yard, checking his watch.

Maybe he should still go there. Mr. Leibniz would certainly be annoyed, but surely when he sees the finger he'd understand the pain involved, do something about it.

He needs to go somewhere. He knows this. Stand around here much longer and the station guard will come back. Never attract attention. The great rule of this city. Blend in. Walk in a group. Speak quietly. Keep your good fortune to yourself. Queue patiently. These are things that no one has ever said to him, at least not directly. Yevgeni picked them up from simply being here, alive to the quick of his skin.

Excerpted from All That Is Solid Melts into Air by Darragh McKeon. Copyright © 2014 by Darragh McKeon. Excerpted by permission of Harper Perennial. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.