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Attention replaces foresight. The light of a cigarette in the darkness of an entryway, the drunken laughter of a large company, the clinking of a broken bottle, the groaning of a machine - any sign is enough to anticipate trouble and try to avoid it. Unless, of course, the unpleasantness has already targeted you.

The junior group of the Upper Novgorod boarding school also had its own omens, which foretold pain and trouble. The shriek of a babysitter, the thud of a ruler hitting a wall, the clatter of bollards being turned over during an inspection. So much trouble - those who didn't make their bed, kept their hands and nails clean, and didn't drag food from the cafeteria were only touched on the edge for a bit of a scolding.

Worse, the trouble followed the ringing voices of the older group, who, out of boredom and impunity, would drop in on the little ones several times a day. While the other troubles could be avoided by getting away from the culprit and his problem in time, this one chose its victim from among the frightened, huddled mass of children. This time they chose me, pulled me out of the second row of the frightened children's pile, and dragged me, who was struggling, behind them. I could hear the crowd behind me exhale - not them.

The standard trick is to surround a loner with a serious look and convince them to do something they absolutely must not do. In my case, the setup looked like two spokes peeking out of a socket. On a stool nearby, there was a yarn, forgotten by the nurse, from which they took the iron pieces; they fumbled with them for a while, poked those who didn't manage to escape in time, then got bored and invented a new game. With me in the lead.

"I bet you can't do it with one hand, can you?" The older boy hovered over me, curving his lips in anticipation of amusement.

"He's a wuss!" the chorus chimed in.

"I'm not a wuss," I puffed my cheeks, resenting my bad luck. I was six, which didn't stop me from realizing that being a victim of those four was extremely fucked up and, more often than not, painful. And any action I took under their tutelage brought that pain closer.

"Quickly take it!" A bark came from behind me, slapping me on the neck. If delayed, the babysitter might come back, and all the fun would be over.

The spoiled yarn would be blamed on me. I had enough sense to understand that. But I saw no danger in the two spokes. Somehow no one at the shelter explained the dangers of electric current, occasionally just shooing curious people away from outlets. The socket was a "can't go near", and "can't touch" - the same taboo as a medicine cabinet or window handles. So I hunched over a little and clutched the spokes in my hand, panting angrily while at the same time desperately wishing the nurse would come back right now and see the whole scene. I froze, closing my eyes and waiting for events to unfold.

"Is it not working?" The guy on the right said perplexedly.

"There are lights," they echoed to him uncertainly, flicking a switch nearby.

I looked frightened at my elders, afraid to budge.

"Let me..." The leader touched my shoulder... and then shoved me sharply against the wall - not on purpose, but the guy was thrown off me and onto the floor, where he froze with a frightened look a moment before he screamed and cried.

The babysitter flew in at the scream, groaned when she saw me at the socket first and rushed to the rescue. She was thrown a little closer and came to almost at once, giving out in a shrill voice about thirty incomprehensible words, which were easy to make into a picture of future punishment. Then I unplugged the spokes and held them out towards the nurse apologetically. It seemed to help - the flow of screams immediately ceased. The woman herself backed away from me without getting up, then dashingly for her size rolled over and fled out the door. While I was wondering whether I should cry and what to do with the spokes, the nurse had already returned with the Headmistress, a tall, slightly overweight woman with a wicked look and the same long wooden ruler.

Headmistress slowly looked around at the troublemakers huddled against the wall in front of me, staring at each one for a few seconds. As if she could guess her thoughts, the babysitter immediately began whispering the name, age, group number, her laments, and praises in her ear. According to her words came out that the guys are good and not at all to blame. On the contrary, saved the child fool who stuck the spokes into the socket. That's when I burst into tears - out of resentment at such lies and injustice. At six, there is good and bad, black and white, evil and good, so the unspoken alliance of bullies bullying four dozen children and the only babysitter on the floor, quite content that the children do not shout and make noise and obey - if only at the cost of the impunity of four freaks - seemed like a terrible crime.

I remember the rest in fragments - I was lifted, led to the bed, given something to drink, and it was morning the next day.

Since that day, everything has changed drastically. No, I wasn't scolded or beaten - on the contrary. It was as if everyone had forgotten what had happened as if nothing had happened yesterday. But the new day was still very different from the previous ones. For one thing, the food was being given differently. There was another table beside the common ones for four people, at which I was the only one to sit. And the food I was offered in our meager cafeteria was very different in quality and quantity from what was smeared on the plates of the others.

Of course, this did not go unnoticed by my peers; they had learned to be jealous but not to think very much, preferring to act. To my amazement, the "why, I'm going to punch you in the eye" conversation was stopped by the four seniors, who smartly smote the offenders and threatened to do the same to each of the unwilling onlookers if anyone ever laid a finger on me. It was as if I had become the sanctuary animal of the institution - I was fed, guarded, and controlled in my health.

Of the disadvantages - daily running in the morning and evening, a few painful injections, separate exercise in the afternoon, and bitter pills along with breakfast and dinner. Another would have been glad, but I, by some animal instinct, inexplicable by experience - which had nowhere to come from, nor anything else - there were no obvious facts that the six-year-old me could understand, sensed bad things. Each day looked like the twin brother of the previous one, minor details changing - like the weather, the food, the glimpses of faces passing by. And then the bell rang in the hands of a first-grader on September 1, the day on which all my peers went to first grade. I didn't.

Classes were held here, in the east wing of the boarding school, so there was no way I could miss that big day - I even went out into the courtyard with everyone else to line up in a straight line in front of the white line in the A or B class - depending on which of the lists my name appeared on.

It turned out that I wasn't in any of them, so I just stayed next to the "B" class easily viewing the forecourt over the heads of my peers. In a year of individual classes, I had grown up solidly. Welcoming speeches from the Headmistress and a short concert performed by senior pupils were contained within half an hour. After that, the first-year pupils were given the right to be the first to enter the building - only this time, they would not go into the left wing, the living quarters, but into the right wing. Headmistress intercepted me at the entrance, easily pulling me out of the crowd, and in a stern voice, ordered me to go to her place. So all the peers got another reason to envy me - while they poring over the lessons, "this bum" could lie on the bed. I did not lie down but ran and jumped under the supervision of a babysitter, who carefully checked everything I had to do today against the plan in a green notebook. None of this existed for the roommates, but there was a lucky bastard who should have been taught a lesson long ago.

People's vengeance came on the last Thursday in October, two hours after curfew. Tired after other hours running around the block - my classes continued through the winter, under the watchful eye of my personal warder, who preferred to watch from the window - I chose not to notice the unusual silence on my arrival in the common room, ignored the prying eyes and wry sneers, waved it all off, and went to bed. I paid the price for it - when several bodies came crashing down on me, throwing a woolen blanket over my face and starting to hit me with quick, swinging blows, it was too late to do anything about it.

The scream didn't break through the dense fabric. His arms and legs pressed securely against the bed, preventing him from moving. I only twitched when particularly painful bursts of pain passed through my body, but that wasn't enough strength to throw off as many as a dozen guys. It got worse from there - after spending all my breath screaming, I was horrified to realize that I couldn't breathe - the plaid was pinned too tightly. I twitched this time in outright panic, but my enemies only piled on more, with the excitement of continuing to "teach" the stubborn creep. I was already getting purple circles in front of my eyes and a wild rumble in my temples.

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I tried with all my might to push my tormentors away, putting all my fury, all my desire to live, and all my fear into the attempt. The result was wild: it flashed so that my eyes went round and round through my closed eyes and the thick fabric. It jerked sharply, taking all the weight off me. It smelled of burning and, at once, the smell of the thunderstorm. There was silence for a second, but then it was replaced by a child's screaming and crying. The footsteps of the babysitter on duty rattled down the corridor, and the lamps above my head flashed, illuminating the scene of the carnage, in the center of which was my bed, which had shifted considerably, with the "champions of justice" on either side of it crying tears of wild resentment.

And not just from resentment - someone was thrown onto the frames of the nearby beds, someone bruised his elbows when he fell and banged his head unluckily. A babysitter grunted as she put the children to their beds, the first-aid kit brought out some gauze and cotton wool, and I continued to clutch the rug I'd almost been strangled with, darkly streaked in several places, in my hands. I couldn't think at all; I was knocked out by a bright flash that still made the ovals flicker when I moved my head sharply.

The next scream was raised by the babysitter herself when she saw the light silvery meshes of a pattern on the hands of the "innocent victims", stretching from the fingers to the shoulder. The intricate pattern, as if lightning had frozen, and it did not want to wash off ... I felt cold in the stomach. I picked up my feet and wrapped myself deep into the blanket, trying to protect myself from the evil, heavy stare given me by the mistress of the floor. She browbeat me for half a minute, waved off the remaining unmasked green children, and walked off into the depths of the floor. As it turned out, she went to call her bosses.

The room had more or less calmed down, the beds shifting in place, the blankets rustling - sleep was not coming after this, so they tossed and turned. There was too much fear to talk, and instead of threats, the heavy, resentful breathing and quick, slightly frightened glances were enough. I got up to straighten the bed sheet and straighten it and froze, staring longingly at the black gaps in the parquet floor where the metal legs of the bed had stood. I was really going to get in trouble for this.

It had been a long night. Headmistress's voice pulled me out of my sleep again. I managed to fall asleep, leaning against the headboard. At her command, as I was - in slippers and pajamas, clutching my blanket and plaid - I stood in the corridor for a long time while the nurse and Headmistress walked in circles around my bed, examining the opalescence on the floor, studying the strange patterns on the other children's hands and questioning me about what had happened in a stern voice. Then followed a long walk through empty corridors, an ascent to the first floor, the light of a lantern, the passage to the east wing, and a new wait - this time by the ajar door of the headmaster's office. The door was shut tightly at first, but then I was frightened - the impenetrable darkness of the unlit corridor was pressing and terrifying to such an extent that I flailed my arms and legs, demanding to be let in.

I wasn't interested in the conversation inside the room, and I hardly listened, wrapping myself in a blanket and fighting sleep, but some things came through and were unwittingly remembered. For some reason, I couldn't be left in my old room, and a new place had to be found for me. But... adults, as it turns out, also have many fears and inhibitions. You can't move my bed to the older group - "He'll kill everyone there!". I wonder who the scary "He" is? Can't put it in the library - "Vera Sergeevna will tell her husband!" In the corridor - "It's cold out there." In the babysitter's station - "You can't interrupt training!" Or even here, in the principal's office - "Are you kidding? I've got visitors, how am I supposed to work?!" The babysitter also refused to take it home - no doubt to her good fortune. Gradually, going through the rooms and names, the adults stopped at the watchman's room and were suddenly silent. All the sleepy haze instantly disappeared, replaced by a feeling of ice crumbling down my back. Not that way!

A watchman is a scary man. Anyone can tell you that. He also has a scar across his face, a crutch instead of a leg, and one hand tied to his body! He's also mean. He throws stones, so they go right between your shoulder blades, no escape, no shelter! They also say that he eats children. And cats. And dogs. That's the kind of man they led me to. Or rather, I imitated a step being towed down the corridor by a babysitter, i.e. I was limping along the corridor while my body was being dragged to its imminent death.

The ogre's lair looked cozy - probably because he was not there, and there was the scent of mint tea in the air. There were the usual furnishings: two beds with their bedside tables along the walls and a table by the window. It was the same as the one in the infirmary. A two-liter jar of brew was steaming with smoke on the table, covered with a white lid. There was a rolled-out newspaper with pictures of strange, beautiful people. There was a kettle on the windowsill, wrapped in a cord. There was nothing else to see. Even by the look of the beds, one could not tell which belonged to the watchman; they were all alike, with neatly fluffed pillows.

"Make yourself comfortable there," ordered the babysitter, nodding towards the bed on the far side of the door.

We had already read the story of Mashenka and the Bears, so I tried to do as little damage as possible by sitting on the edge of the bed and wrapping myself in what I had brought with me. The babysitter just shook her head and then collapsed onto the fluffy pillow. I'm sure he'll eat her first if that's all right.

By the time the Chief Bear arrived, my teeth were already tapping out an unsteady rhythm - first, I was scared. Second, the wall was cold, and I was quite cold, and moving was even scarier.

The door opened inaudibly, letting in the main nightmare of the neighborhood - wide, tall, with a creepy face and a black cane in his hand. He grinned into thirty-two huge fangs, and his low voice shook the walls and the floor. Or was it me who was shaking?

"Mashka, you're late," the watchman shook his head reproachfully, reaching for his belt buckle with his healthy hand.

He'll hit! I thought to myself, twitching with an involuntary squeal of a spring.

The watchman's hand stopped.

"Who's that?" He looked at me suspiciously with his creepy eyes.

"This is Maxim. Headmistress has ordered him to stay with you for the time being," Babysitter stood up to meet him, bravely holding the monster by the shoulders.

"Why would that be?" There was not a hint of good-naturedness in his voice.

"He fights a lot. He's violent. If you make him angry," she corrected herself when she caught the unkind look. "He can't stay in the ward. He'll hurt someone or strangle himself. He can't go to the seniors either, you know..."

"What do I need it for?" The watchman interrupted her rudely.

"They'll give you a raise for looking after him. Besides, you don't sleep at night anyway."

Was it just me or did she stroke him on the shoulder?

"Where do you 'not sleep' now?" He pressed her against him - briefly, his arm immediately thrown off, and she jerked aside.

"Kolya, not in front of the kid! We will find it. In the gym, on the soft mats. Will you come?" She wiggled her body, managing to rub her thigh against the bogeyman.

"Let me at least meet the lodger," he grunted contentedly, shooing the babysitter out of the room.

"I'm waiting!" She purred from the corridor.

I didn't know she could have a voice like that - not unlike the rattle of unlubricated door hinges or the howl of a cat whose tail has been stepped on. We used to catch it on purpose and check it out...

"You've been fighting, I hear?" I was pulled out of my thoughts by the watchman, who had already made himself comfortable on the bed opposite, closer to the table. The cane lay carelessly in his right hand - no way for me to reach it.

I shook my head.

"They were beating me," I muttered, looking furtively.

"Were there a lot of them?" The man carefully poured the tea into a miniature cup he 'magically' retrieved from under the tabletop.

"I don't know. I haven't seen it."

He put the other one next to it and looked at me questioningly.

"They put a plaid over my head and piled on," I said, greedily looking at the blue-embellished enamel cup.

"Oh well, that's interesting. What's next?" He put three sugar cubes in the cup instead of tea, raising the stakes considerably. "You're looking a bit too good."

"I don't know," I sniffed, not wanting to lie. I didn't really know what happened myself. "They were hit by something."

"Really?" The watchman snatched one cube from my mug and threw it into his.

"Really!" I exclaimed, not wanting to lose the sweetness. "It came out on its own. I wasn't allowed to breathe."

"What do you mean?" The keen gaze of the grey, faded eyes clung to me, preventing me from breathing.

"There was a flash and smoke, and then it was like a thunderstorm. And the boys were thrown back. And black marks on the floor. And the plaid is smoking," I swallowed hard, squeezing even harder.

"Is the plaid the same one?" He pointed a finger at the grey-black flap that had come loose from my duvet cover.

I nodded hastily and quickly pulled it off as he made a characteristic gesture.

Rough fingers fumbled with the burnt cloth, clawing at the small marks and rubbing them together. The watchman peered through the holes, sniffed carefully, and even tasted it on his tongue. After that, to my regret, the plaid went to a corner of the room. I'd better get it back - it's cold.

"Seven years, my ass. You want to kill them so much!" He said with deep thought as he tilted the tea tin over the second cup.

"I didn't!" I resented it wholeheartedly.

The watchman froze, pouring in just a little bit.

"I didn't mean to kill anyone!" I erupted in indignation. "I was scared, and I wanted to breathe. I was afraid to breathe. That's it," I murmured, deflating.

"Didn't want to kill and even without hatred..." he nodded his thoughts, already stating, and added faintly: "Thick blood."

The tea finally reached the edge, causing my mouth to feel dry - like I'd run twenty laps in the summer heat. And then... then the bastard tipped the contents of both cups into himself and watched my face stretch with incredible contentment.

"It's a refreshing brew you don't need," he grinned crookedly as he waddled to the door. "Make yourself comfortable, kid."

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Chapter 2

Destiny next door