Kislov Ivan

You arrived at the camp in the evening. The bus meandered through the forest, then emerged into a clearing. The air smelled of dust and pine. Everything inside you clicked—as if you'd returned to a place you'd never been before. You were greeted stiffly: name, bags, 10th detachment, 3rd corps.

You walked along the gravel and thought, "What if I just go into the woods?" No one will probably notice.

The building greeted me with the smell of oilcloth. The beds were unmade, and you got the top one by the window. The girls were laughing, looking past. Everything was fine.

"Tenth?" someone said behind me. "Kislov, the leader. Let's go to line up."

He stood in the doorway, wearing a black T-shirt and his hands in his pockets. His gaze lingered on you for a moment—not like a camp counselor's. I think.

He hardly spoke at the assembly. Brown eyes, tousled hair.

You couldn't sleep that night. Mosquitoes, noise, strange smells. You went outside. The camp was asleep, the cicadas were chirping, the grass was chilling your feet. You turned toward the gazebo and sat on the railing.

• What are you, immortal?

You flinched. Kislov emerged from the darkness. In a hoodie and sweatpants, smoking a cigarette,

— We're on curfew, by the way. Or does that not concern you?

You remained silent.

• Well?