I boarded the plane without any issues, and the journey, with all its transfers, surprisingly went smoothly, even the last four hundred kilometers by bus on the highway turned out to be unexpectedly comfortable.

I kept my eyes on the window for the last hour. The bus slowed down, and a sign indicating the beginning of the town appeared. I could already distinguish individual words. Frenstat. I was returning... home.

We stopped at a small but modernly equipped station. I remembered my hometown as a sleepy small town in the foothills of poor mountains, where there was a shortage of both jobs and every crown.

In the decades since I had been there, it had transformed into a modern, contemporary, picturesque, and evidently thriving city. The dominant feature was a tall building that lacked only a few floors to be called a skyscraper. But practically all the buildings in the vicinity were nicer than in most human settlements I had ever known.

Moreover, they were sensitively coordinated with the original older structures. A beautiful place. And it was here that my pack lived. Some preferred the terms family, kin, or clan, but in reality, we were a pack.

The concept of a pack meant more than it seemed at first glance, and I wasn't eager to delve too deeply into the past. Although it was precisely because of it, because of the pack, that I was here.

The doors closed, the engine roared, and the bus departed for another gradual destination in the never-ending carousel of stops. Until a time when rust devours it, or its engine becomes too worn, or it becomes too old and uncomfortable for someone willing to pay for its services.

I shook off a sudden surge of melancholy and headed towards a modern-looking information booth with the word "Informace" displayed.

I had contemplated what language I would speak during the journey, and I had been practicing Czech for the last few hours. I was already getting quite good at it at Prague Airport.

"On vacation?" asked an attractive twenty-five-year-old woman behind the counter when I described my request.

"Sort of. I travel a lot for work, and for a vacation, I need peace, preferably at home. I mean in the Czech Republic," I replied with a smile.

Hers was nicer and more professional. She recommended the Ogar hotel.

Why not.

I checked in without any problems; the room was simple but modernly equipped and perfectly clean. From a small balcony, it was easy to jump onto the roof of a lower hotel annex. Simply put, if one didn't mind a five-meter vertical ascent and a three-meter horizontal distance, it was not an issue for me.

For lunch, I headed to one of the restaurants in the square. I remembered that half of the buildings used to have cracked and peeling plaster, old window frames, and the cobblestones of the square were overgrown with grass in many places. Many of them were also missing. Today, the square was like a picture-perfect display, evidence of prosperity and good times.

On my way, I stopped at a phone booth where, surprisingly, I found a phone directory - a local variation of the commercial phone directory. It made my job easier. I noted down the numbers for all the names I could remember - numbers for butchers, mechanics, transporters; those were the professions that sustained us. In the past, we were shepherds, hunters, foresters. But times change, and we manage to adapt.

Steaks here were better than in Scotland; I ordered two and three beers to go with them. If it weren't for the assassination attempt by a hit squad two days ago, I could imagine I was truly on vacation.

A beautiful woman, dressed sportily as if returning from a walk in the hills, flashed by the bar. She exchanged a few words with the waiter and then disappeared again. She was beautiful in a way I always liked - efficient movements that concealed awareness of her own fitness, occasionally spiced with a trace of femininity. But during her visit to the restaurant, she saved that femininity. I liked that too. Her hair had the color of ripe chestnuts - the ones that fall to the ground and just peel out of their mature green husk, the spines of which still sting. I didn't collect chestnuts - damned memories.

I didn't return to the hotel directly; instead, I strolled through the town. I looked for places where members of the pack used to live. Most of the old houses had disappeared, replaced by small row houses with gardens, and in many places, noticeably more luxurious villas submerged in greenery. The names on the doorbells meant nothing to me. I had to rely on addresses from the phone book. Too bad Evelyn didn't give me more clues, but she probably didn't have much time. And she was certainly under stress.

In the room, I connected to the internet, browsed the city's websites, and looked specifically for links to local businesses, including advertisements. Surprisingly, I didn't find any websites for the tradesmen whose numbers I noted from the phone book. That was very strange. The local ads were different. "Volk Butchery" was offering an older delivery van for sale. Volk Butchery. We used to try to befriend butchers; now, we were becoming them ourselves. I wouldn't have said that about Boris Volk; I thought of him as someone who had trouble controlling himself around raw meat, but maybe he changed. Or maybe his son owned the business; time was passing, and I had been away for a long time.

I systematically searched the classified ads for any other mention of Volk, Ris, and other surnames from the pack. Except for two very old ads, I found nothing. Web search engine memory revealed that not long ago, there were websites for Volk and Son Butchery or Kolonov Auto Service. However, all of them had been recently shut down. I didn't want to investigate further. I wasn't a professional in the world of the internet, and I was afraid of drawing attention to myself.

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

I pushed the notebook aside and straightened up until my spine cracked. I needed to think about what to do next. And I also needed to stretch. The last few days of traveling by bus, plane, and then bus again took a toll on me.

At the reception, I asked about a decent fitness center, put on my workout gear, added hotel soap, towels, and headed out.

* * *

The fitness center, sponsored by Health Care Ltd., as proudly proclaimed by the bronze plaque at the entrance, was located in one of the streets ending on the outskirts of the town, with a view directly into steep slopes and forests. The meadows were neatly mowed, and even the forests a few hundred meters higher looked better and healthier than I remembered.

Everything here was nicer. The only thing that stank was the letter from Evelyn. And the fact that the pack had disappeared. At least, that's how it seemed for now.

The fitness center consisted of two squash courts, an aerobic gym, and a hall filled with cycling and rowing simulators. The gym looked small and tucked away, but appearances were deceiving. There were enough weights, especially from a reputable company, so one didn't have to worry about a twenty-five-kilogram disc falling on their head.

"Do you need any help?" asked a bald guy around 175 centimeters tall, with shoulders so wide he had to walk sideways through many doors.

"No, thanks. I just need to stretch," I declined.

I was wearing loose sweatpants and an even looser shirt, but even so, I couldn't hide that I wasn't exactly a lightweight.

"I understand, but if anything, I'd be happy to help; it's my job."

"Sure."

And it also seemed like hardcore strength training was his hobby. Maybe even a passion.

The gym was empty, just as I expected on a Friday evening. That was good – it meant I could really work out.

I don't like simulators; they restrict movement, somehow degrade it, taking away the pleasure. I started with slow stretching, somewhat reminiscent of asian wushu, then moved on to faster and more vigorous shadow boxing. I stopped when I was out of breath. That took me about thirty minutes, and I could wring out my shirt. I changed into another one and loaded all the weights from the stand onto the olympic bar, adding two from the leg press machine. I lifted it off the stand, started lunges, then moved to chest presses, followed by shoulder presses. When I'd had enough, I returned it to the stand and did three quick sets of twenty reps on the bench press.

Out of breath again, I sat on the bench.

"Do you want to give it a try?"

I heard him approaching, and I had my answer ready.

"I was just about to come get you. I had a good session today; I'd like to try it," I said.

I saw him counting the weights.

"It's two hundred twenty kilograms," he replied. "Not many people are as strong as they look; you apparently are."

He positioned himself near the bench to assist if needed.

"Do you want a lift-off?"

"Yeah, better," I took advantage of his offer.

With his slight help, I simulated two repetitions.

"You're really good," he nodded in acknowledgment.

I wasn't happy he caught me, but I hoped I played it well.

"I'm done; I'll just spend fifteen minutes on the stationary bike."

Not that I felt like it, but it was expected, and he nodded in understanding.

In the section with aerobic machines, I ran into the chestnut-haired woman from the restaurant. She had headphones on and was pedaling like her life depended on it. Eyes closed.

She opened them and caught me looking at her.

"Ha, good day," she greeted me.

I managed to reply without stuttering. I liked her, damn it, I really liked her. She attracted me, and that made me nervous. I wasn't used to something like that.

Although I hadn't intended to, I started the treadmill and hopped on, realizing she was still looking at me in a way that I couldn't see. I was trying to do the same.

Later, we met at the fitness bar. She was wearing jeans, ankle boots with a mid-high heel, and a sporty knit shirt that would seem inappropriate – or rather provocative – in a different setting. Her breasts were on the smaller side; I realized that even on the exercise bike, she only had a stretchy sports bra.

"You really gave it your all," she continued the conversation.

I was ready for that.

"And what about you, you didn’t go easy on yourself either," I chose from possible standard responses. "Almost like you were training for a race."

She laughed, her hair tied into a ponytail gleaming as she shook her head.

She reminded me of the deer I used to kill when they came for the chestnuts I scattered for them.

Damn.

"I'm a local. I came back after ten years of building a career and taking a break. I'll see how it goes from here. And a break means pulling myself together, fixing what I neglected."

She smiled somewhat apologetically, making her look even more attractive.

I didn't remember her, but I was a local over forty-five years ago; she wasn't even born then.

"And you?"

She liked me. I realized that too. And it was mutual. For many years, I had this unpleasant feeling that I couldn't control it – unless I ended it right away.

I said goodbye with an excuse that sounded silly even to me and gracefully walked out with self-denial.

Damn. I stopped swearing many years ago. Shit.

In the reflection of the glass door closing, I saw her giving me a contemplative look. Then, she stopped paying attention to me and pulled out her phone.

Fuc... I don't swear.

The cold air helped a little. But only a little.

I come back here, and I have trouble with women again, even with strangers, outside the pack?

Absurd.