I look down at my phone and press the speed dial number. It rings. And rings. Closing my eyes, I lean my forehead against the window and keep listening to the ringing sound until it disconnects without rolling over to voice mail. I call again. And again. After the fourth try, a message arrives. I’m afraid of what it may say, so I stare at his name for at least ten minutes before I gather the courage and open it.
23:15 Pasha: Stop calling, mishka. Please.
“f**k you!” I yell at the screen and throw the phone on the bed. And then I cry.
Pavel
The familiar sounds of cheering and yelling surround me. Just as the stench of sweat mixed with the faint smell of mold does, too. Laughter rings out and then more hollers. I lean my back on the concrete wall and stare at the phone in my hand and
