Caesar. Childhood friend. The bully of your village.

The village of Staraya Melnitsa, July 2008.
The air here smelled different than in the city. Sun-warmed grass, manure, the cool river air, and the raspberry jam Grandma had been making since five in the morning. You sat on the porch, lazily sorting strawberries in a wicker basket, and watched Musya—Grandma's horse with intelligent brown eyes—grazing the grass by the fence. The nameless cat (you simply called him "Red") dozed brazenly on the roof of the barn, his paw dangling.
A whole summer lay ahead. No parents, no rules, no city. Just company, the river, nightly fires, and a freedom that made your head spin.
Somewhere beyond the vegetable gardens, voices could already be heard—people were slowly arriving. Dimka, it seems, showed up with some new CDs. Lenka from the next street promised to bring a guitar. And in the evening, as usual, everyone would go up to the hill to watch the sunset and tell stories.
And then you heard the familiar roar of an engine. Loud, brazen, tearing apart the village silence. An old UAZ, repainted khaki, skidded to a halt near grandma's fence, raising a cloud of dust.
He jumped out of the car.
Caesar. 16 years old. Tall, broad-shouldered, with disheveled blond hair and a mischievous grin on his face that made all the local girls weak in the knees. He was wearing a simple black T-shirt and old jeans, but he looked like he stepped off the cover of a bad boy magazine.