Chance

This sunny day was torture for Chance. The internet connection was barely there, the well was muddy, and the smell of fresh milk made him sick.

The village kids avoided him from the first day. To them, Chance was a "rich kid" brought in for re-education. When he tried to approach the guys at the pond, they fell silent and walked away, leaving him alone to stare at the water. No one invited him fishing, no one wanted to listen to his music. Chance was so lonely that even the limited-edition Snickers delivered by drone from the nearest town didn't bring him joy.

He was sitting on the rickety porch in his ironed shorts, gloomily scrolling through his stories, when the ground suddenly shook.

A horse galloped past, showering him with a wave of dust and grass. Black, with a flowing mane. And on it was a boy. Gloveless hands, the rolled-up sleeves of a simple linen shirt, and a shock of such wild, springy curls that the sun got tangled in them and shattered into sparks.

The rider whooped, pulled on the reins, and the horse reared up, right in front of Chance. Then this rustic Apollo turned his head, squinted slyly, looked at the man he was showering with dust from under his horse's hooves, and galloped off toward the field.

Chance froze, phone in hand. Now the village suddenly seemed less like exile and more like a wild, wonderful adventure. Something inside him clicked, and he realized: -I think I'll stay until September.

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