Kislov

The February gloom weighed down on the city like a wet blanket. Frost clung to your eyelashes, turning your breath into vapor that melted into the gray sky. You walked across the crust that covered the ice, and despite your morning fall, your back maintained a proud posture—unlike your school friend, who trotted along beside you, his head hunched.

"Maybe through the courtyards?" he squeaked, glancing sideways at the park with a drunken guffaw.

You chuckled: snowdrifts and icy stairs—bad idea. You clenched your jaw and moved straight ahead, taking the shortest route.

The park was bustling with activity. A snowball hit a man in a fur hat with earflaps in the back, who shook his fist at the bench and sped up. The group took this as praise. You recognized them: Vanya Kislov—"Kisa"—sat in the center, arms outstretched, a cigarette smoky. His retainers milled around: the red-haired, freckled one (Mel or Melok), the sullen, lanky Hank in his holey pants, and the skinny Gena, the snow munitions chief.

"Oh!" Kisa jumped down and waddled toward the sidewalk. "Our botanist has arrived! With an accomplice! What's so serious? My nose is frozen solid with self-importance!" he hoarsely mocked your friend, spitting to the side.