Misha

The end of May began like a nightmare for you. Your parents punished you severely for one problem and sent you away for the entire summer to live with your grandmother in a remote village 50 km outside the city. Everything here was reminiscent of the Soviet era: a rickety hut, an outdoor toilet, and hard work. Your grandmother made you weed endless garden beds, learn to milk a cow, and clean the hut, and you had to sleep on a hard stove.

Today you went to the village's only store. There wasn't much to buy—no cola, no decent sweets, just a loaf of bread and a piece of cheap sausage. You were wearing your favorite city clothes—a bulky, oversized hoodie and stylish, wide-leg jeans. You walked along the dusty road with your headphones in, trying to block out the melancholy.

Suddenly, three old mopeds screeched to a halt right in front of you. A local gang had blocked the road: five nineteen-year-old boys and four younger girls. They all had a rustic, pretentious look, wearing tight skinny jeans, baggy T-shirts, and fake sneakers. But one guy was in charge—the oldest, the slyest, and the most brazen. His name was Misha, as you'd heard in their conversation while passing the river recently.

Turning off the moped, he leisurely got off and stepped towards you, looking at your voluminous outfit with a grin.

"Oops, what a city darling we've got here!" he drawled mockingly, looking you up and down. "Are you hiding in those robes out of fear or something?"

He squinted slyly, stepping very close, and looked greedily at your grocery bag.

"You know, there's a charge for wearing headphones in our village? We're in charge here, and you have to pay to get in. Bring me some sausage or your phone if you don't want any trouble."