Page 10

Troop Two’s base was in an area where the deciduous forest transitioned to a coniferous one. Needles and pine cones littered the sand on which they’d pitched their tents, and there was a smell of resin in the air. Yurka dove into the thick bushes again and watched the enemy camp from a distance. He didn’t see anything of much interest, though. They were doing the same things as Yurka’s troop. A couple of girls were busy by the campfire. Petlitsyn and his partner were walking through the middle of the camp, evidently headed toward the commander’s tent. Semyon, the other phys ed instructor, was doing the kids’ physical fitness tests: jumping, squats, push-ups, stretches. Most of the kids were by the yellow flag, standing on the lookout.

Yurka didn’t spend too long in his hiding spot. He indicated the enemy’s position relative to his own troop’s base on his handmade map. Then, after checking his compass, he traced a path between the two. Now he and Masha would have to get back safe and sound to their own camp so they could pass the information on to Ira, their troop commander, and begin their attack.

He felt he’d been squeezed dry, like a lemon. A lemon that was dirty, dusty, and totally fed-up. He and Masha eventually made it back to base, although on the way there they came across three different sets of enemy fighters whose whispered conversations revealed that the rest of his troop’s spies had been neutralized. Once he realized that he and Masha were all alone and a whole lot depended on them now, Yurka got truly scared. But the fear that he and Masha would be caught, thus delaying their troop’s attack, was a rational, “good” fear. And for the time being it covered up the other fear, the “bad” one, the one that was irrational, profound, shameful: his fear that something was wrong with him.

They got back to their base and gave Ira Petrovna their information. The businesslike troop leader had taken a moment to show off the captain’s shoulder boards on her uniform jacket and was now dividing her fighters into three groups: the first would stay in camp to protect their flag; she’d lead the second directly to the Yellow base; and she ordered the third, led by Zhenya, to go the long way around and approach the Yellow base from behind. To Yurka’s great delight, Ira took Masha with her but assigned him to Zhenya. Their trek was long and dreary, so all he remembered of it was a jumble of endless forest, his comrades’ uniform shirts, lots of whispering back and forth, and his worry that the noise made by a dozen kids would get them found out and captured. But the troops successfully moved into position and stayed there to lie in wait until the other half of their forces approached from the front. Zhenya lay on his stomach under a bush next to Yurka and whispered feverishly: “The Yellows aren’t expecting an attack from behind. We have the advantage. We’ll get the flag before Irina does.” Yurka snorted to himself. He felt like adding, And lay it at her feet!

As soon as they heard the first signal that their fighters had arrived, Yurka and his detachment moved out. But what ensued was a playground scuffle rather than an organized attack: everyone collided with everyone else in a wild free-for-all. Yurka got caught up in the melee like in a centrifuge, then darted in and out of the confusion, somehow managing to tear off two boys’ shoulder boards. He wounded Mitka by getting his right shoulder board and killed Petlitsyn by yanking off both his shoulder boards at once.

Thanks to Irina’s prayers and Vanka’s hands, the Yellow team flag was soon theirs. Yurka’s team formed up, started singing army songs, and marched back to home base. Ira was glowing with happiness. Zhenya was out of sorts because one of his fighters had been the first to make it to the flag, not him, so he was trailing along behind, cursing softly. But Yurka was laughing and singing along with everyone else as they belted out the familiar Pioneer song about strong, happy young people working together as a troop to accomplish their collective goals.

Still, no matter how happy he was, he was so exhausted his legs were like wet noodles. He wanted peace and quiet. Once he got back to the victorious hubbub of his troop’s base, he quickly ate dinner and hid in his tent, away from the clamor. He stretched out on his stiff mat like a starfish, arms and legs akimbo.

He drew his sleeping bag up over his head and tried to go to sleep. But sleep wouldn’t come, prevented not so much by the noise around him as by his own thoughts. Now, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t drown them out. Although he’d been able to push them aside during the day, while he was busy, he was no longer able to escape his thoughts now that he was alone.

And what he thought was that he had to find the courage to stop deceiving himself. It was impossible that what had happened at morning exercises was just a little bit of early morning awkwardness. Because his interest in looking at Volodya, his desire to look at Volodya, had been so deep and profound that even now he still got a pleasant tingle way down in his chest whenever he thought about it. But what was that? What was he doing? It wasn’t right to look at people that way ... especially not to look at him that way. Yurka felt uncomfortable admitting it, but if he quit making excuses and was honest with himself, he didn’t want to stop looking at Volodya at all.

He sat up abruptly. He threw off his sleeping bag, rubbed his face with his hands, and violently raked his fingers back and forth over his scalp. Not because his head itched, but because he wanted to rip these shameful thoughts out of his head. He didn’t want them! Yurka disgusted himself.

Outside his tent, dusk was falling. He heard the sounds of camp: somebody strumming a guitar, the soft strains of a happy little song, the racket of dozens of Pioneers talking all around him. Yurka even thought he could clearly distinguish the voice of chubby little Sashka somewhere nearby, opining about the buckwheat kasha they’d had for dinner.

“The evening’s just getting started, soldier, but you’re already going to sleep?” At first Yurka thought he was dreaming Volodya’s voice. But Volodya really was standing over him, wearing the exact same uniform jacket as Ira but for two differences: the buttons on Volodya’s jacket were shiny, and his shoulder boards didn’t have a captain’s insignia. Yurka was awfully flustered, but he tried to greet Volodya calmly. Still, he couldn’t disguise the nervous tone of his voice as he spoke: “Comrade Lieutenant, sir! Good evening, sir!”

“ First Lieutenant.” Volodya smiled. He turned slightly to display his shoulder boards and pointed at the stars.

“Oh, I see,” said Yurka, feigning admiration. He lay back down. “You still alive?”

“Mostly. But they gave it their darndest! Listen to this: I forgot to get my pass, so I went to Central Command to pick it up and my own troop was on watch. But they insisted I show my pass! They grabbed my arms and legs and started pulling in opposite directions and hammering their fists on my back. They don’t realize that even though their fists are small, they can still hit pretty hard. So now my whole body hurts! My shoulders, too. Can you stretch them out for me?”

“N-no,” stammered Yurka. “I don’t know how.”

“Too bad ...” Volodya said, pursing his lips, then lay down next to Yurka on the discarded sleeping bag and heaved a sigh of pleasure. “This feels so good ...”

Yurka lay still, afraid to move a muscle. Volodya’s shoulder with its black “SA” insignia pressed close to his own. Yurka could neither ignore this touch nor move away to end it. Meanwhile, Volodya didn’t even notice, apparently. He rolled over onto his side, looked at Yurka, and narrowed his eyes. Yurka looked away.

“What’s that you’ve got there ...” He stretched his hand toward Yurka’s tousled hair, but Yurka shrank away from him. Even as recently as yesterday he wouldn’t have done that for anything, but after everything that had happened, he felt Volodya’s touch too keenly, as though it were piercing him from head to toe. It scared him.

“Grass?” said Volodya. “Why do you have grass in your hair?”

“‘And sawdust in my head,’” joked Yurka awkwardly, quoting the beloved Soviet version of Winnie-the-Pooh. “I was a spy. I spent all day slinking around the forest.”

“Well, I spent all day in Central Command being pestered by my kids about coming out here to the forest. As soon as lunch was over, they all started up at once: ‘We want to be like the big kids,’ ‘We want to fight in Summer Lightning, too,’ ‘We want to sleep out in tents!’ Lena was about ready to scream.” Volodya folded his hands behind his head. “Sashka and Olezhka kicked up such a fuss that I had no choice but to bring them out here.”

Yurka was trying to listen to him, but it wasn’t working very well. The meaning of what the troop leader was saying was lost in Yurka’s desire to touch him ... but Yurka turned away emphatically and mumbled, “Ira was saying that just a few kids were coming with you. What about the rest?”

“I told them I’d only take whoever did their best while they were working at Central Command.”

“Did many of them do their best?”

“No. I was strict about who I picked. Mostly kids from our drama club. A few got upset, of course, so I had to give them a choice: either a few kids go, or nobody goes at all. Because I wasn’t willing to take on that kind of responsibility. And then Lena promised she’d take the rest of them to the movie theater tonight and show them cartoons.”

Yurka stood up and looked down at Volodya, who was relaxed and showed not the slightest sign of being tired. It made sense, since Volodya wasn’t the one who’d been running around in the bushes and attacking the enemy base; still, the kids could wear you out just as bad ...

Seeing him stand, Volodya said, “Oh, did you want to go to the campfire? We’re going to tell some good stories here in a minute.”

“Scary stories again?” grumbled Yurka, grasping for something to pin his mood on.

“Had enough of them, huh?” said Volodya. “Me too. But no, it doesn’t have to be scary stories. Although, if they ask, I’ve got one about the Queen of Spades.”

Volodya smiled warmly.

Playful little sparks danced in his eyes.

All of a sudden Yurka was filled with a painful longing.

“Let’s go,” he grunted, and shot out of the tent like a bullet.

Because it now seemed to him, after that morning, as though there was some kind of subtext to Volodya’s behavior, as though it was not weariness that had made him lie down next to Yurka, not curiosity that had made him reach out for Yurka’s hair.

But that was all just Yurka’s own imagination! Volodya couldn’t actually know any of what he was thinking.

He couldn’t! He hadn’t seen anything, after all, and as for any improper thoughts of his own ...

well, Yurka would bet his eyeteeth that such thoughts had never troubled Volodya’s good, honest Komsomol head.

Volodya came out of the tent after Yurka and gazed after him, puzzled.

Olezhka and Sasha immediately swarmed the troop leader and pulled him over to a spot they’d specially prepared for him.

Yurka, taking advantage of the momentary separation, sat down at some distance from the campfire.

As they listened to Ira Petrovna, the kids grew so quiet that her soft voice carried all the way out to Yurka: “...

and the first Pioneer camps appeared in the twenties.

They were field camps, meaning that the first Pioneers lived in tents, not cabins.

Remember the movie The Bronze Bird , about the Pioneer camp right next to an old manor house?” All the kids nodded.

“It was exactly like that.

If they could find a building suitable for a camp, the Pioneers would use it, of course.

Anyway, the Pioneers’ main task at that time was to help villagers do their work and teach village children to read and write—”

“So they could crank out denunciations and get rewarded with a trip to Artek, the most famous Pioneer camp of all,” mumbled Yurka to himself.

Ira Petrovna went on: “The main event in Pioneer camps was the campfire assembly, where the Pioneers discussed the results of their day’s activity: how many people they’d taught to read and write, how many people they’d helped, what they’d built or repaired.

And they made plans for the next day.

All by themselves, without any grown-ups, the Pioneers decided who had earned their praise as well as who to reproach, and they did educational work ...”

The history of Pioneer camps bored Yurka.

Ira told it every single session, because there were always some campers who didn’t know it yet.

This time Volodya’s kids were the primary audience, especially Olezhka, who was so captivated by the story that he just sat there, wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

The rest remained politely silent.

Yurka did, too.

But as he gazed out into the evening darkness, he was glad to listen to a story he was heartily sick of, just so it would drown out the internal voice that was nagging him again.

All of a sudden he clearly heard a soft rustle behind him.

He located the source of the sound and tensed.

There was some kind of animal rustling around in the bushes just a couple of meters away from him! Without saying a word to anyone, he tiptoed up to the bushes.

A very soft peeping noise came from somewhere low down and to the right, almost underneath the bushes.

Yurka peered down, mystified.

There was movement in the decaying carpet of last year’s leaves covering the ground ...

Yurka’s heart fell and a cold shiver ran up the back of his neck.

What if it’s snakes? he thought, horrified.

Time seemed to stop.

Slowly, trying not to make any sudden movements, he stepped backward away from the bushes.

Yurka had seen those beguiling reptiles more than once and knew to avoid getting anywhere near them.

He knew that during the day vipers, which were cold-blooded, liked to warm their bodies in the sun.

He also knew that June was their breeding season, so they also liked to collect into big balls in their nests.

Phrases he’d heard in school during pre-military training and in biology class flew through his mind: a viper works like a windup mechanism, where the closer you get to it, the tighter it curls up, and then it’s like a coiled spring releasing, it jumps up and bites you.

And the closer the bite is to your head, the more dangerous it is.

And here was Yurka, the idiot, who’d completely forgotten about snakes and gone traipsing bravely off into the bushes in the middle of the night without telling anyone.

He was about to shout to the troop leaders that he might have stumbled into a nest of snakes, and he’d already made his peace with his impending death and prepared himself to be attacked by an enraged viper, when a reddish-brown maple leaf shifted aside and out from underneath it came ...

a little button nose.

And then Yurka heard a soft snuffling sound.

“A hedgehog!” Yurka sighed in relief when the prickly round body followed the nose out of the leaves.

Yurka squatted down on his heels and reached his hands out, ready to grab the animal.

But surprisingly, it didn’t run away.

On the contrary, it came out from under the bushes to him and poked a curious nose into his sneakers.

After a greeting like that, Yurka just couldn’t leave the little guy under a bush: he was so cute, so brave.

Yurka definitely had to show his unexpected guest to the little kids.

He chuckled as he took off his jacket, wrapped his new friend in it, and carried him back to the campfire.

The hedgehog was a genuine sensation, for Troop One every bit as much as for Troop Five.

The seated kids stopped listening to Ira to jump up and huddle around Yurka.

They took the hedgehog out of his jacket and started passing him around, each one trying to tickle or pet him.

They loved his funny snuffling and christened him Snuffly.

Nobody, not even Snuffly, had any objections to the name.

After the initial surge of excitement waned, they had to decide Snuffly’s fate.

Ira announced a vote on how to proceed: let him go, or bring him to the camp’s Red Corner, a nook devoted to the local flora and fauna, full of books, posters, and live specimens.

The vote was unanimous: Feed the hedgehog first, then keep him overnight and bring him to the Red Corner the next day.

But when everyone was completely calm again, they realized there was nowhere to keep the hedgehog until morning.

“I saw boxes of canned beef in the field kitchen,” Volodya remembered. “I don’t think Zinaida Vasilyevna would have anything against us taking one of the boxes.”

“A cardboard box? Won’t he chew through it?” Ira Petrovna said with exaggerated distrust. Her tone reminded Yurka yet again that she and Volodya still hadn’t made peace with each other.

Zhenya interceded: “Even if he does chew through it, nothing bad will happen. He’ll just run back into the woods, that’s all.”

“Zinaida Vasilyevna won’t like this!” said Ira, frowning.

“Irina, what do you want us to do?” asked Volodya. “Are we supposed to carry him back to camp? In the middle of the night, through the woods?”

“No. I won’t let you go at night. Keep him in your tent.”

“I’m not sleeping by myself; I’m with some of the boys.”

“Then you think of something,” she ground out through gritted teeth.

“What do you want to hear? ‘I’ll take full responsibility’? Fine. I’ll take full responsibility. What an important matter you’re making such a fuss about!” said Volodya angrily.

“Guys—not in front of the kids.” Zhenya gave each of them a conciliatory clap on the shoulder. The kids who had collected in a circle around them exchanged worried glances. “I can find Zinaida ten fantastic boxes if need be.”

Yurka realized he was the underlying cause of the fight: it was because of him, after all, that Volodya had burst out with that “Are you in love with him ... ?” comment back in the theater. He’d been in a not-great mood already, but seeing this fight threatened to ruin his mood completely. So it was more an announcement than a question when Yurka said, “So does someone need to go get a box, then?” Without waiting for a response, he walked off toward the field kitchen.

“I’m with Konev,” Yurka heard behind his back. Volodya quickly caught up with him. He was carrying a flashlight he’d gotten somewhere and lit Yurka’s path with it, even though it was a moonlit night and there was no need for electric lights.

“What’s wrong with you?” Volodya asked angrily.

“Nothing’s wrong with me. And the last thing I need is for you to take out your anger on me,” growled Yurka.

“No, no, I wasn’t going to take anything out on you. If it sounded that way, I’m sorry. But ... Yur, I feel like you’re avoiding me.”

“Not really. I’m just tired.”

“Come on, Yura. Don’t try to fool me.” His voice betrayed his frustration. “I can see something’s wrong. Are you mad at me? What for? Did I say something wrong? Or did I do something wrong?” Volodya had now become quite alarmed. He looked Yurka right in the eyes and put his hand on Yurka’s shoulder, but physical contact with Volodya was something Yurka didn’t want; in fact, it was something Yurka was afraid of. So he shrugged Volodya’s hand off. Volodya was now completely baffled: “Is this all still because of the magazines?”

“I’m just—no—I mean, it’s just—”

“What is it with you and this ‘I’m just ... ,’ ‘It’s just ...’? Give it to me straight: What’s wrong?”

“Everything’s fine. I’ve been in a terrible mood since I got up this morning. I didn’t want to ruin your mood, too.”

“Well, you did.”

Yurka came to a halt by the field kitchen. “How?” he asked, surprised.

“Because you’re avoiding me. I’m worried, you know.”

“What? You’re what? You’re worried?” said Yurka stupidly. Yet deep inside he grew warm. “About me?”

“You’re my friend, of course I’m worried about you, and concerned, and ...” Volodya trailed off and lowered his gaze. He bit his lip, then cleared his throat, and then said carefully, “How about this: if something happened, you have to tell me, because I’m not ... I’m not a complete stranger to you, after all. And I’m a troop leader, too. I can help you. Okay?”

“Okay. But I really am just tired. Everything’s okay, Volod.” But Yurka was saying it more to convince himself than Volodya.

“That’s settled, then,” said Volodya. “Tomorrow, when everybody’s still asleep, we’re going to go fishing. Want to join us? Or are you too tired? You’ll have to get up at five in the morning.”

“Whew, five a.m., yikes,” Yurka said, hedging. “If I don’t get enough sleep, I’ll be grumpy and sleepy all day and generally out of sorts ...”

“You’re already out of sorts,” grumbled Volodya as they found a box and turned around to bring it back to the campfire. “And I am, too, because of you! Alyosha told me you’d already told him yesterday you weren’t going to HQ, so I thought I’d offended you, so I’ve been on edge all day. I can’t do anything right.”

It was simply not possible for Yurka to react to these words with indifference. Volodya was out of sorts without him? On edge? Couldn’t do anything right? So that meant he needed Yurka. How nice it felt to be needed. Yurka’s alarm about what had happened at morning calisthenics faded; he wanted everything to go back to the way it had been. Yurka smiled. “Fine, okay. I’ll get up.”

“But don’t forget to ask Ira’s permission to leave.”

“Of course. If it comes up, confirm that I’m going with you. Where are we meeting?”

“I’ll wake you up myself.”

Yurka was certain that waking up at five a.m. was beyond him. Sure, he’d force himself to, but it wouldn’t be so much waking up from sleep as much as coming back from the dead. Even on regular mornings it wasn’t exactly the easiest thing for him to wake up, and this time it would be even harder, after such a stressful day ... But his fears weren’t borne out. All he had to do was crawl into his tent for his weariness to make itself felt. The moment he put face to pillow, he fell asleep. But his sleep was troubled: even in slumber, thoughts of Volodya wouldn’t leave him in peace. All night Yurka tied Volodya’s neckerchiefs, constantly getting the knots wrong. Then he brushed against Volodya’s neck. Volodya got goose bumps all over from the timid touch of Yurka’s fingers. And then, in real life, Yurka’s whole body was suddenly covered in goose bumps too, and he jolted awake in a panic.

He opened his eyes and sat up, breathing heavily and trying to figure out where he was and what time it was. Around him was nothing but pitch-blackness and utter silence except for the wind that whistled outside the tent, rustling the treetops.

Yurka crawled out of the tent quietly and carefully, trying not to wake up Vanka and Mikha. The first thing he did was read his watch in the light of the moon. Four fifteen. Yurka sighed. He would’ve gone back to sleep, but there wasn’t a speck of sleep left in him.

The sky was just beginning to brighten. Yura estimated that dawn wouldn’t be for another thirty minutes or so, but the beginnings of a pale glow in the sky already signaled the new day.

There was nothing he could do. Yurka headed out to look for a place to wash his face. He found the DIY handwashing station hanging on a tree near the field kitchen and splashed water in his face. A shiver ran down his whole body. He was seized by the urge to go back to his tent, tuck himself tightly back into his sleeping bag, and not go anywhere. Fishing? The river? Who needs that? It’s totally freezing out here!

He walked over to the tents. But not to his tent. He’d decided to find Volodya.

The three Troop Five tents were arranged end to end in a triangle. Yurka peeked into each tent in turn. One tent was the girls’ tent; the other two were for the boys. But Yurka didn’t recognize Volodya at first, since he was wrapped tight in his sleeping bag all the way up to his ears. Next to him lay the snoring Sashka, the wheezing Pcholkin, and Olezhka, whose nose whistled with each breath.

Yurka stepped carefully around the boys and knelt right next to Volodya. The disheveled sleeper looked funny, sillier than Yurka had ever seen him before: evidently he’d been reading his notebook before bed and fallen asleep, since the notebook was lying on his chest, and his flashlight, still on, was on the ground beside him. He hadn’t even taken his glasses off. They’d slipped down his nose and were evidently bothering him from the way he frowned and jerked his head as though dreaming of something unpleasant. Yurka couldn’t help it and laughed, but as quietly as he could, trying not to wake Volodya.

Volodya opened one eye, blinked, and opened the other. He looked up, blankly at first, then in suspicion, and then in horror: “Did I oversleep?!” He sat up sharply.

“No, just the opposite: still ten minutes to go.” Yurka snorted a quiet laugh again.

Volodya adjusted his glasses. Then he put his finger to his mouth to shush Yurka and looked meaningfully first at the sleeping boys, then at the exit from the tent.

Once they were both out of the tent, Volodya asked in a whisper, “Why’d you wake up so early?”

Yurka shrugged. “Don’t have the foggiest idea. I just did.”

Volodya looked at his watch and said, “Never mind. It’s already four thirty anyway. We need to wake the kids. Will you get them up while I go wash my face?”

Yurka nodded and went back into the tent. While he was waking up the kids, Volodya dispatched his lingering sleepiness and collected the fishing gear.

It was Yurka who led their little group to the river: Volodya, as it turned out, didn’t know his way around the wooded area very well, while Yurka knew of a great little fishing pier not far from the camp beach. By the time they’d made their way there, it had gotten light out.

“Do you all remember how you need to behave, guys?” Volodya lectured. “I’ll remind you. No jumping and no running on the pier. Sit calmly. Fishing isn’t a game. Fish like quiet. If you shout, you’ll scare them and you won’t catch any!”

But the kids seemed to have no intention of misbehaving: they still hadn’t really woken up yet and dragged themselves after Yurka, half-asleep and yawning every other minute.

At the river, the reeds rustled and the frogs’ croaking was deafening. Yurka took a deep lungful of fresh, damp air and stepped out onto the pier. The boards creaked a little bit under his weight. The rays of the rising sun sliced into the morning mist blanketing the water. Where the pier met the shore, there was a thick rind of pond scum with a nondescript little bird hopping around on it. Yurka was amazed the bird didn’t fall through the precarious surface.

He’d never thought in a million years that such idyllic stillness could exist in the same space as the Troop Five boys. But that morning, on the fishing pier in the river, peace and quiet reigned. Neither the rascal Pcholkin nor the reckless Sashka had the slightest intention of getting into trouble. They sat on the wooden planks and held their fishing rods and watched their bobbers like hawks, determined not to miss it if they got a bite.

But the fish weren’t biting. So far the only thing biting was Yurka. He was biting the inside of his cheek, trying to stay awake. He gave a huge yawn, then joked, “Are the fish still asleep?” In the past half hour, only Olezhka had gotten a nibble, but he hadn’t managed to yank his fishing pole up fast enough. The fish got away, leaving a hook with half a worm on it.

“What a smawt fish!” exclaimed Olezhka, not a bit dismayed. “It bit the wowm but didn’t get caught on the fishhook!”

From time to time Yurka would lose track of the world and slip into a doze. His general lack of sleep, on top of yesterday’s exhaustion, was making itself known now.

Volodya, sitting right next to him, kept up a quiet murmur of encouragement for the campers: “Don’t worry about it. The main thing here isn’t the fish—it’s the fishing!”

Those were the last words Yurka heard clearly. He didn’t realize he was falling asleep. He’d just been watching his bobber, but now his head had fallen to one side, and he’d closed his eyes, and a sweet, delightful contentment spread over his whole body ...

“I got one! I got one!” Sashka’s loud voice burst into his cozy, sleepy little world.

“Pull it out!” squeaked Olezhka.

Yurka opened his eyes and found that his cheek was resting on something hard and warm ... Volodya’s shoulder. Yurka jerked his head up and looked around. His fishing rod was lying on the pier next to him; behind the boys’ backs, a few small perch were wiggling in a net. Volodya looked at him without a word.

“Whoops, looks like I, uh ... fell asleep ... ,” said Yurka lamely, looking at the shoulder he’d just been resting on.

“Really? I didn’t even notice,” said Volodya, feigning surprise. He looked pleased and was barely able to keep from laughing. “You can sleep some more if you want ... Stripey.”

“What?” Yurka asked, confused.

“The fabric was wrinkled and it left stripes on your cheek. Right here.” Volodya touched his jaw affectionately and burst into laughter. This was the first time Yurka had been this close to Volodya’s face. Volodya had dimples.