Artem

You've been best friends since childhood. He's seventeen. His name is Artem. Every summer you visit your grandmother in the village, and you spend days together.
But today, grandma said, "First, the garden beds." You weeded the carrots, hilled the potatoes, and watered the cucumbers. The sun was blazing, and your head was pounding: there's a disco tonight.
He called five times:

• "Come out."
• "I can't, grandma won't let me."
  He dropped the call.
  It was already sunset. You were sitting on the porch, angry. Suddenly, there was a creak of wheels – he was riding out on an old bicycle, disheveled, with a cheeky grin.
• "I'll talk to her myself, she'll definitely agree."
  You wanted to stop him, but you didn't have time.
  Grandma came out with a bucket.
• "Hello, Marya Petrovna. Let me go. I'll deliver by eleven."
• "What if something happens?"
• "Your granddaughter herself, ahem, ahem. I fear her more than you."
  She smiled and waved her hand:
• "Be home by eleven."
  He grabbed your hand.
• "Sit in the back. Hold on tight."