1981–1985. USSR, Moscow.

  We’re playing in the yard. The game is similar to stickball, but we simply call it “The Can.” The rules are straightforward: you throw a stick to knock over a can placed about 50 feet away. The “it” player has to set the can back up and defend it, trying to tag other players with their stick. If they succeed, the tagged player becomes “it.”

  In reality, it turns into a full-on fencing match—one against all, or all against one. Each scenario has its own challenges. It’s tough to fend off a group alone, but it’s just as hard to fight alongside others when everyone’s doing their own thing.

  The game teaches you a lot. Precision in throwing. Fighting solo against many. Teamwork, where you sense and understand each other. It’s all about coordination.

  The energy is electric. Shouts and chaos fill the air.

  Suddenly, a booming voice cuts through the noise.

  “Stop it, you little brats! Don’t disturb the peace!”

  Peace… I’ve always hated that word.

  “What’s your problem?” I yell at the fat face glaring at us from a window.

  “You’ll find out soon enough!”

  I’m confused. What does he even want?

  The building door swings open unexpectedly, and a pot-bellied man charges at us, wielding a crowbar.

  I signal with my hand, and we scatter in all directions.

  “Got it, you punks? Don’t you dare come back here!”

  A real hero, huh? Coming at kids with a crowbar.

  I glance back instinctively. On a bench sits my teacher, watching me disapprovingly.

  “What? They won’t let us play?” I ask sarcastically.

  “What do you think?” he replies, his tone sharp.

  What does he even want? I’m still fuming.

  “In his eyes, your game is disorder. Even chaos,” he says thoughtfully. “And he’s not wrong.”

  “All kids make noise!” I argue.

  He gestures toward the schoolyard.

  “Look, those are the ‘good’ kids. That’s order.”

  Sure enough, there are kids in the schoolyard, accompanied by parents and grandparents. I can’t figure out what they’re doing, just walking back and forth. It looks like they’re walking dogs.

  Boring.

  “Yes, but isn’t that order?”

  “No,” I reply sharply.

  He smiles.

  “You’ll have to prove your point.”

  “Look!” he points at the fence.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  I look, trying to understand what he means.

  “But…” I turn back.

  He’s gone. His sudden appearances and disappearances are so annoying!

  There—the building door is closing! I’ll catch him!

  But there’s no one in the stairwell. I step outside and see him calmly walking away in the distance.

  Again! He just stepped around the corner and pulled the door to distract me.

  Another lesson. Or a hint?

  That’s all fine, but what do I do about this hippo? Think. Think!

  He’s too big to take on. It’s like fighting an elephant barehanded. One flick, and you’re out.

  But he’s fat and slow. Yes. He’s emotional and can be provoked. That’s something. The fence the teacher pointed to—I know what’s there. A trap.

  On the other side are bushes and flowers. In one spot, they hide pieces of rebar sticking out of the ground. While I’m good at climbing fences, this one’s tricky. You can’t just leap over it. You have to stop at the edge and jump far enough to clear the flowerbed hiding the trap.

  Few people know about it, and he certainly doesn’t. But I have to lead him there. If I lose him, he’ll stop chasing or take another route. I have to “guide” him, make him think he’s about to catch me.

  Great plan, I think sarcastically. One mistake, and you’re caught. What’s your Plan B?

  I relax my hand, and the knife slides into my palm.

  “Hey, pig!” I shout provocatively. “Fat, ugly pig!”

  His face barely fits in the window.

  “What!” he roars.

  I flip him off.

  “Why don’t you go…!”

  His face turns red, and it looks like steam is coming out of his nostrils.

  “You’re gonna get it now!”

  So far, so good. Fear hasn’t set in yet, but I can feel it creeping closer. Fear, adrenaline—they’re either your allies or your enemies. It all depends on whether you can control them.

  The door slams open, and the enraged hippo charges at me.

  He’s faster than I expected. Maybe I overdid it?

  The plan to lead him goes out the window, and I run as fast as I can.

  But it’s not enough. He’s gaining on me. Almost got me. Time slows down. Ahead is a strange metal frame. I duck and slide under it on my backside. Not the most pleasant sensation.

  I hear a metallic clang. The hippo couldn’t stop in time and crashed into the frame.

  This is my chance. The fence is close. But he’s gaining again. I can feel his breath on my skin.

  I run at the fence, plant my foot, and leap, grabbing the edge. There’s no time to stop, so I jump forward as hard as I can. Time slows again, and I realize I won’t clear the trap. Instinctively, I twist mid-air and land on the edge.

  The landing is rough—too rough. My legs are numb and won’t cooperate. I hobble forward, relying more on my body weight for each “step.”

  I hear a crunch behind me. I turn.

  The hippo jumped straight into the trap. It worked!

  But he climbs out of the bushes and steps toward me as if nothing happened. What?!

  He takes another step. The rage on his face turns to surprise. He tries to take another step. Now there’s fear on his face.

  The knife appears in my hand, and I step toward him. He stumbles back and falls.

  I approach and press the knife to his throat. I want to say something, but no words come. I just spit in his fat, frightened face.

  “Get lost!” I pull the knife away and give him a solid kick in his fat backside.

  He tries to get up but can’t. Somehow, on all fours, he crawls away from me.

  I limp toward the building. The teacher is already there. I sit down next to him.

  “Not bad. You proved your point. I don’t think he’ll bother you anymore. Or anyone else.”

  I’m still shaking. My legs are numb, and my scraped backside hurts.

  “Thanks,” I mutter.

  “But you made too many mistakes. And you know why.”

  “I was overconfident and underestimated my opponent.”

  “Exactly! But I’m proud of you! You did the nearly impossible!” His voice is sincere.

  Nearby, the same girl lingers, hesitant to approach.

  “I’ll leave you two alone,” he says with a sly smile. “And don’t mind my grumbling. Winners aren’t judged. Now enjoy your glory and…”

  He pats me on the shoulder and smiles mysteriously.

  The girl runs up. Her eyes are filled with worry and fear.

  “What happened? You’re all dirty and bleeding!”

  “I’m fine!” I try to sound calm.

  What can I say? Show her my scraped backside?

  But she pulls out a handkerchief and starts wiping my hands and face.

  She’s saying something. I’m not listening. It doesn’t matter what she’s saying. What matters is how she’s saying it.

  The negativity fades. The adrenaline subsides. Peace and happiness take its place. Yes, strangely enough, happiness.

  She keeps talking, grabbing my hand, leaning close, then suddenly pulling away, startled.

  I look around. In the eyes of those around me, I see fear and hope. Rumors spread quickly.

  I feel the growing respect in their gazes.

  And I don’t know if that’s good or bad.

  Because now they’ll expect more from me. But right now, I’m too tired. And this girl…