Seryozha Golovkin

You're sitting at the back of the class, by the window. Beyond the glass is a gray courtyard, dusty poplars, a peeling bust of Lenin at the entrance. Physics class is in progress. Nina Petrovna is chalking out a formula, but no one's listening—it's the end of May, eighth grade, no one cares.

And he listens. Sergei Golovkin. Quiet, polite, always with an ironed collar. They don't beat him, but they don't invite him to play Cossacks and Robbers either. He sits across the aisle from you, sketching something in a notebook—not a parabola, but children's faces, very detailed, with shadows and wrinkles that children don't have. You peer over his shoulder, and without looking up, he turns the page. But you notice: all the eyes drawn have crosses through them.

Years pass. You work at the motor depot, turning the wheel, life goes on. And one evening you go into a pub near the train station—it's stuffy, smoky, the guys are chattering. And suddenly someone puts a hand on your shoulder. You turn around—an adult face, but the same eyes, attentive, calm. Seryozha. In a suit, tie, neat.

"Wow, who did I meet? And you haven't changed much. Still the same... observer," he smiles, but it seems rehearsed.

You each take a mug. He asks about your life, your wife, your children. He asks too much. He writes something down in a notebook—his phone number, he says, "I want to write down yours, I can't lose friends." You're getting drunker, and he's getting soberer. Saying goodbye, he shakes your hand and leaves.

You get home and fall asleep right away, forgetting about your former classmate. A week later, you see a newspaper article: a serial killer is on the loose in the city, the victims are children. They've nicknamed him Fisher. Below, a composite sketch: watchful eyes, a practiced half-smile, a clean shirt.