New York, December 2014

***

"Come in, Irman. Have a seat."

Dr. Wayne, as befits a psychiatrist, smiled warmly.

Irman closed the door and sat in the offered chair opposite the man, fixing him with a heavy, frowning gaze.

"So," the doctor said softly, "we haven't seen each other for almost five months. I must admit, that's an excellent sign. You're doing wonderfully."

Joseph took a notebook and pen from the top drawer of his desk, placed them in front of him, and looked at his patient again.

"I think a lot of interesting things have happened in your life during this time. Maybe there are some new experiences that left an impression on you? Or new acquaintances?"

Irman preferred to remain silent.

There were plenty of impressions. But discussing them with Dr. Wayne was absolutely unappealing.

The flicker of a shadow in the guy's blue eyes did not escape the man, and he frowned.

"This won't do, Irman," Joseph said in the same gentle tone. "I can see something is bothering you. But by keeping silent, you're only making things worse."

The guy merely scoffed disdainfully at his words and turned to the window, fixing his gaze on the snow-covered trees, their branches dancing with the cold glints of the winter sun.

"Irman, we've been through this many times," Dr. Wayne spoke again. "Don't make me commit you to the clinic again."

"This is your fault," the guy said after a few moments, breaking the silence. But he didn't turn to face the doctor.

"And what, may I ask, is my fault?"

Joseph made a small note in his notebook and looked at his patient.

"Who suggested 'Saint Isaac's Academy' to my father?" Irman fumed. "How did you even come up with that?"

"There were several reasons," the man didn't evade the answer. "Strict discipline, good education, and excellent prospects for the future. Moreover, a closed-type academy suits you better than a public one."

Irman's eyes widened at such a statement.

"That's an academy for boys!" he gasped, not even trying to hide the anger overflowing his soul. "Do you have any idea what kind of trials you've subjected me to? I have to live among perverts. And I'm already close to committing murder."

"Irman, not all men are perverts," Joseph tried to calm him down. "Moreover, you will have to get used to living in the company of men one way or another."

"Oh really?" the guy hissed through his teeth, trying with all his might not to explode and waste years of psychotherapy. "What if I don't want to get used to it? Why do you act first and think later? Who asked you to interfere in my life and decide what's best for me?"

"I am your doctor," Joseph replied with a substantial argument. "It's in my interest to ensure your well-being improves. And the fact that it's been so long since our last meeting only indicates that my method is working. Now let's return to the beginning of our conversation." The man tried to gently steer the discussion back to where he wanted it. "Five months... what new things have happened in your life during this time? What emotions dominated your heart during this period, and how did you cope with them?"

Irman scoffed.

"Not very well," he replied.

When the man raised an eyebrow slightly, urging him to elaborate, he continued:

"Dr. Wayne, do you have any phobias?"

Joseph smiled serenely at his patient and said:

"You know the rules. We're here to talk about you. Please, answer my question."

Irman pursed his lips in displeasure.

"Fine," he said. "Let's suppose you hate spiders. And they lock you in a room with those creatures. Everywhere you look, spiders are everywhere. On the walls, on the ceiling, on the furniture... they're crawling near you. Climbing on your clothes. Getting into your plate. At night, their hairy legs touch your hair, they drag their hairy bellies across your skin and crawl into your ears and mouth. What would you feel, Dr. Wayne? Disgust? Rage? The urge to kill?"

"Most likely, I would feel fear and an overwhelming desire to call an exterminator," Joseph replied calmly. "But people are not spiders, Irman. And the fear you're experiencing doesn't apply to everyone without exception. I am also a man, but you talk to me calmly. I don't think your comparison fits the situation."

"It fits perfectly," the guy retorted. "But you're right about one thing. People are not spiders. And an exterminator won't help here."

He barely suppressed a shudder before continuing:

"My course mentor suggested I take up boxing to relieve tension in the ring. And it helps a little. In three months, I haven't injured anyone, which is a big achievement. But sometimes, I still get irrational anger. It happens when I'm in a crowd of students. And also in my sleep. Almost every night, I have the same nightmare. I dream of that old pervert from my previous school. I dream of beating him until he falls to the floor. Then I crush his skull with my heel and watch with pleasure as the bone fragments cave in. Blood gushes from the wound, revealing gray outlines of his brain. And I keep pressing on his skull until it bursts like a watermelon. The brain squelches under my shoe, and I feel immense relief knowing there's one less scumbag in this world."

"Please, compose yourself," Joseph requested, making another note in his notebook. He quickly changed the subject: "Let's talk about your new mentor. He is also a man, but you even listen to his advice. How do you feel when you're alone with him? That happens, doesn't it?"

Irman held his breath.

The image of the first-year mentor loomed in his mind like a sinister threat, and the guy swallowed painfully.

"I feel fear," he admitted quietly, licking his suddenly dry lips.

"Fear?" Joseph was genuinely surprised.

This was something new. Irman often spoke of hatred, disgust, revulsion, but had never once mentioned fear as an emotion he experienced.

"Are you afraid he will make advances toward you?"

"Not at all," Irman shrugged. "It's not that."

"Then what is it?" the doctor pressed.

"He..." the guy hesitated, recalling the piercing, stern gaze of the mentor, and exhaled, "He punishes students for breaking the rules. You could say he's a virtuoso in his field. A real sadist, whom everyone fears, even the most hardened delinquents."

"Physical punishments?" Joseph suggested cautiously.

He had heard that Saint Isaac's Academy had peculiar customs, so he did not rule out the possibility of physical discipline.

Irman didn't respond, and the man concluded that his assumption was correct. So he said:

"Whatever the case, all that is required of you is to follow the rules and not break them. Essentially, it's not that difficult."

Irman shook his head, then laughed nervously:

"Then you try it. Imagine yourself in a room with spiders, crawling toward you as if you were a huge, tasty fly, and restrain yourself. Don't stomp on them. Don't pull off their legs. Don't brush them off your clothes. And don't even protest. Follow the rules, Dr. Wayne. Otherwise, the exterminator will come and tear you to pieces."

Joseph quickly drew a spider in his notebook and placed a question mark next to it, then looked at the guy, whose gaze was clouded with a strange mist.

"Let's leave the teacher aside," he changed the subject again, understanding that Irman was beginning to delve too deeply into his thoughts. "Have you found a friend? I advised you to make friends with one of the students. Did you succeed?"

"Maybe." Irman shrugged. "There's a guy I often box with in the ring. He's also a first-year student and seems like a normal person. But it's hard to talk to him."

"Why?" the doctor asked.

"Because he never shuts up and is constantly around. And sometimes I just can't resist the urge to punch his arrogant ginger face and make him bleed."

Joseph smiled inwardly.

Though Irman spoke of violence, there was neither rage nor anger in his eyes, which meant he didn't feel disgust towards this person.

"Is there anyone else? Let's say... an enemy?" the man cautiously suggested.

After pondering the doctor's question for a moment, Irman stretched his lips into a cruel smile.

"There is one bastard..." he said with extreme disgust on his handsome face. "If I'm going to kill anyone soon, it will be him."

The Irman's memory immediately conjured the hated image of a bespectacled second-year student who behaved like the ultimate scumbag, constantly provoking fights.

This weakling was incapable of putting up any decent resistance. Yet every time they crossed paths, the pathetic wretch's insolent mouth would spew streams of insults, making Irman's blood boil and awakening a murderous desire.

Joseph looked intently at his patient's face and shook his head inwardly.

Irman knew how to hate with every fiber of his being, giving himself entirely to this destructive feeling. But he had never learned to love. And that was his main problem.

"Have you ever thought that this behavior might be... a sign of affection?" the man asked very cautiously. "Maybe all his actions are aimed at attracting your attention?"

"In other words, he wants to die in agony by my hand?" Irman clarified, his voice dripping with barely concealed threat. "If that's the case, I'm more than willing to grant his wish."

"In other words, he wants you to pay attention to him," Joseph calmly repeated. "In any case, I'll give you a small task. During your relaxation sessions, you should think about why your friend and your enemy treat you almost the same way. In your description of their actions, I noticed a similarity. Neither is afraid of you. Both, as you put it, talk too much and get on your nerves. It's an interesting pattern. Think about it. And think about what feelings you actually experience when you encounter them."

"Then I'm afraid I won't be able to relax," Irman said gloomily, simultaneously pondering the man's words, which evoked mixed emotions in him. "They both annoy me. But at least Joss can defend himself. Setton, on the other hand, is a real dead man walking with no sense of self-preservation."

"Irman, you can't hit people just because they want to talk to you," Joseph said instructively.

"Setton can be hit," the guy stubbornly pursed his lips. "He even needs to be."

"Before recklessly inflicting physical harm on anyone, you should calmly discuss the essence of the problem with the person bothering you."

"That's impossible!" Irman immediately waved off. "I say one word, and he replies with five!"

"Is that really a problem?" the man asked in surprise. "They're just words. As far as I understand, he doesn't try to touch you. And that's what you can't stand. Men's touches. It's what makes you angry. So why do you want to kill someone for talking?"

"Because it's not just talking," the guy hissed through his teeth. "It's like he sees right through me and plays on my nerves, deliberately hitting where it hurts. He asks for fists. Even if I manage to ignore him, he keeps provoking until I explode."

"Does he treat only you this way?" the man asked another question. "Are your nerves the only ones he uses as his musical instrument?"

"At the moment, yes," Irman said. "But there were rumors that last year, upperclassmen beat him badly for not keeping his mouth shut. After that, one of those guys tried to commit suicide by locking himself in a storage room and drinking cleaning supplies. But I think that's just idle talk."

"And you?" Joseph squinted, peering into his patient's face. "Did you beat him?"

Irman frowned and looked away from the man. His pale cheeks turned pink, as if he felt ashamed of his behavior.

"He asked for it. I warned him not to mess with me."

Dr. Wayne made a few more notes in his notebook.

"And what did he do after that?" the psychiatrist continued to press.

"Nothing." Irman gritted his teeth. "He kept bothering me with even more determination."

"And of course, you responded with your fists."

The guy, still looking away, nodded. Joseph drew his conclusion:

"Well, his motives are more than clear."

"He's an idiot?" Irman suggested, glancing at the man, who was smiling benevolently with his fingers interlocked.

"Not at all," Joseph shook his head. "It seems he is quite smart. I think he likes you. By provoking you, he's trying to get your attention. And knowing about your hatred for such relationships, he sees no other way to approach you."

"If you're hinting that he's gay, he's finished. Let him try to come near me again, and I'll break his neck."

Irman was genuinely getting worked up, feeling a shiver of disgust and revulsion towards Setton.

Until now, he had seen the second-year student as a fool with obvious mental issues. But now the boy felt that by beating this scumbag, he had tainted his hands with filth that would never wash off.

"Irman," the doctor looked intently at the guy, "calm down. You're taking this too hard. Even if this young man has romantic feelings for you, your reaction is unjustifiably harsh. His feelings might be genuine and pure. Homosexuals are people too and can love just as deeply and passionately as heterosexuals. I am by no means advocating for a same-sex relationship, but beating someone just because they might have fallen in love is horrible!"

"If he's a masochist, what can I do?" Irman protested. "Let him stop bothering me, and I won't beat him."

"And if he doesn't stop?" Dr. Wayne asked smoothly. "What if his feelings are so strong that he's willing to endure all your beatings just because he sees no other way to get close to you? What if his desire to be near you outweighs even common sense, and he's ready to bear humiliation and pain without complaint? Irman, be a bit more humane!"

"That bastard," Irman's voice trembled, and his face turned red with anger, "the tutor... he didn't want to be humane when he was raping me! He didn't care that I was in pain and terrified! So why should I be humane when my first teacher turned out to be such an unscrupulous monster?!"

"Irman, listen to what you're saying," the man looked sternly into the boy's anger-filled eyes. "Right now, you're putting yourself on the same level as the rapist. Do you realize that?"

"That's not the point!"

"It is the point. You were treated incredibly cruelly, and I understand your anger. But," Dr. Wayne's tone became significantly softer, "now there's someone who might want to make you happy. And you're treating him like garbage. Listen to me, talk to this guy heart-to-heart, do yourself a favor."

"You're a strange doctor," Irman smirked, as usual, abruptly shifting from one mood to another. "You're kind of wrong. You're not supposed to make me gay, even if I am predisposed to it. You're supposed to cure me of it."

"Treatment comes in different forms," the man smiled. "And we are not meeting to cure you of presumed homosexuality but to help you cope with difficulties. So from now on, I want to see you every week, let's say, on Sundays. You will need to provide me with a full report of every step, every action, and every thought. And this will continue until I see improvements or decide that your case is hopeless."

"Should I also record how many times I went to the bathroom, with the exact time and a detailed description of the process?" the guy sneered, giving the doctor a contemptuous look.

"Record whatever you think is necessary," the man replied, rising from behind the desk. "If going to the bathroom bothers you in any way, I need to know about it."

Irman raised an eyebrow in surprise but said nothing.

"Let's go to the procedures," Joseph called, heading to the door. "I'll be with you and make sure there are no surprises this time."

"You better," the guy warned, "or you might be short a couple of orderlies."

"That was just a misunderstanding," Joseph said, opening the door and letting Irman go first.

At the last procedures, there had been some mistake, and instead of a nurse, a male orderly was sent to Irman. The surprise resulted in a sedative injection for Irman and first aid for the orderly. It was an unpleasant situation, and Joseph did not want it to happen again.

"It won't happen again," he promised. "You have nothing to worry about."

Irman did not argue. Dr. Wayne was a man of his word, so the guy trusted him.

Besides, he was the only man Irman did not feel disgusted by. And the only person in the world whose touch did not make him recoil in horror and want to kill.

So when Dr. Wayne gently took him by the elbow, Irman did not flinch or attack him with his fists but calmly allowed himself to be led down the corridor to the procedure rooms.

***

Being placed under house arrest, Rika suspected that his mom would cut him off from the outside world. But he never imagined she would treat him with such extreme cruelty.

All he managed to do was print a black-and-white photo of Ethelstan and hide it in the stash above the door before his mom burst into the room with a huge box in her hands and started sweeping magazines, books, and even textbooks off the shelves.

After emptying the drawers and throwing every single piece of paper into the trash, she rummaged through the bed and the dresser looking for pornography and other hidden items. She then took the laptop and printer out of the room, confiscated Rika's phone and e-reader, emptied his pockets of all money down to the last cent, and left without saying a word, locking the door behind her.

It was only when it started to get dark outside that Rika realized just how dire his situation was.

He slid off the bed to turn on the light, but the switch didn't work. He pressed it several times, but the bulb didn't light up.

Cursing under his breath, Rika knocked on the door, trying to get her attention. After a while, his mom responded to the noise he made.

She came up to his room with a plate of cold dinner and a candle. When he asked her what happened to the electricity, she said he would live without light until he learned to behave.

Rika didn't know how to respond to that. Angrily, he almost refused to eat dinner. But antagonizing his mom at that moment was dangerous, so he quietly ate every last crumb.

Jennie took the empty plate and left without another word.

Rika had no choice but to climb up onto the windowsill, pulling his knees to his chest, and watch the neighboring houses one by one light up with colorful Christmas lights, twinkling with the stars in the clear, cloudless sky.

He sat there until late at night, watching as the neighbors brought out deer and Santa Claus figurines, and a couple decorated the tree in their yard with ornaments. He curiously observed children sledding and having snowball fights behind hastily built snow forts. He became an involuntary witness to a whole army of snowmen and clumsily carved ice sculptures appearing on their street by nightfall.

Rika had never liked such communal festivities, but sometimes, for Etid's sake, he participated in them.

Now, sitting locked up, he envied the frolicking children and their parents. He worried about his sister, who hadn't come out of the house, even though their mom had spent the whole evening in the yard with her bearded jerk, "Number Thirty-Three."

The man was pretending to be the perfect family man, helping Jennie decorate the house for Christmas and entertaining the neighborhood kids. And the woman was smiling sweetly at her lover, but the look she gave him was filled with winter's chill.

Rika knew perfectly well what that meant.

Soon, "Number Thirty-Three" would be asked to return to his lawful wife and forget about his romantic escapades.

The guy even felt a little sorry for the man, who had no idea about his lover's plans and was cheerfully singing Christmas carols while decorating the plastic deer's antlers with garlands.

At night, Rika couldn't sleep for a long time because of the moans and the creaking bed coming from the other side of the wall. When everything finally quieted down, he sighed with relief and reached into his stash above the door panel to retrieve the photo of Ethelstan.

Climbing back onto the windowsill, Rika carefully unfolded the piece of paper and, smoothing it out, gazed at the guy's handsome face, which looked extraordinarily beautiful in the mysterious light of street garlands and lanterns.

With a shaky breath, Rika gently pressed Ethelstan's photo to his chest and closed his eyes, listening to his rapid heartbeat.

His half-asleep mind painted wonderful fantasies involving the guy.

Ethelstan finds his house and breaks down the locked door to free the starving prisoner, who is feverish from weakness. Calling out to Rika, Ethelstan lifts him into his arms and carries him to the car to quickly take him to the club. When they arrive in the familiar room, he lays Rika on the bed and lies down next to him, gently embracing him.

Rika spends several days in a fever, and during this time, Ethelstan takes care of him. The guy's cool hands touch his forehead, and his moist lips frequently press against Rika's burning skin, bringing momentary relief.

But then Rika realized that this would never happen because he was not needed by Ethelstan. And he began to imagine how the guy would come to his funeral after accidentally reading an obituary in the newspaper. And how he would regret not finding Rika before he died of longing.

Or he wouldn't come at all, but simply think of him with sadness in his luxurious home.

Or maybe he wouldn't think of him at all.

After all, he didn't care. He found himself a toy for the night and then just threw it away when it was no longer needed.

Feeling sorry for himself, Rikald started crying, burying his face in his knees. His agitated mind painted one dreadful scenario after another.

In a year or two, he would see an article in the newspaper about Ethelstan's grand wedding to a beautiful blonde from high society. By that time, Rika would be a lost, deeply unhappy person on the verge of suicide. This article would be the last straw, pushing him over the edge to disappear from this world.

Already gasping through his sobs, Rika crumpled the sheet of paper. But he quickly realized in horror what he had done and rushed to the table to carefully smooth it out. Big tears fell on the paper, leaving dark stains that could easily blur the image. But Rika didn't try to hold them back. With the tears, the poison that had accumulated in his soul in a life-threatening amount was being released. And the fact that the tears fell on Ethelstan's face became a kind of ritual for Rika, an attempt to make fate bring them together again.

Falling asleep in utter despair, Rika couldn't imagine that the next morning would bring terrible news that would completely knock the ground from under his feet.

When he woke up, he heard excited women's voices from outside. To find out what was going on, he cracked open the window and listened intently.

The neighbor from the house across the street, seeing Jennie in the yard, approached her to discuss the disturbing event.

"I'll never fly with that airline again," the woman complained, "and I have a sister living in Paris. What if I had decided to visit her and booked a ticket on that ill-fated flight?"

"And why did the plane crash?" Jennie asked out of politeness, clearly not showing much interest in the incident.

"No idea. They say a bird got into the engine. But you know, darling, the authorities think we're idiots. What bird? I'm sure the engine was faulty even before takeoff."

Jennie said nothing in response. Rika heard her begin to scrape the path with a shovel, clearing the snow.

"Did you watch the morning report from the crash site?" the neighbor continued, having nothing better to do.

"I didn't have time yesterday," Jennie replied.

"It was awful," the woman said. "More than four hundred passengers died. Most of them were French. This tragedy shocked the entire world. It happened around ten in the morning. I was just watching a show when suddenly the channel switched to a breaking news report. The reporters were urging the relatives of the deceased to immediately contact the airport service..."

Rika didn't listen any further.

Pulling the crumpled sheet of paper with the smeared ink from his pocket, he brought it to his eyes but couldn't focus on Ethelstan's smiling face. His hands were shaking desperately, and a choking lump rose in his throat, causing a painful sigh to escape.

A dense fog clouded his vision. Rika took a deep breath and sank to the floor, gasping for air as a panic attack overtook him.

In the initial moments, he didn't even consider that several flights depart from New York to France every day. And that it was not necessarily Ethelstan who boarded that ill-fated flight.

But when this thought finally pierced through the chaotic tangle in his mind, another one quickly followed, and then a third, dragging along a whole series of conflicting assumptions.

"But there could only have been one flight to Paris in the morning. And Ethelstan most likely boarded the crashed plane."

"That's true! But there could have been several flights. Besides, Ethelstan's stepfather was acting calmly. This means that at that moment, everything was fine with the guy."

"Or maybe not. The man was asleep and might not have known about the tragedy."

Rika let out another hollow moan, unsure of what to think. But his chaotic thoughts were abruptly interrupted by the door flying open.

"Rikald, what's wrong?!" Jennie squinted suspiciously as she looked into the room and approached her son, who was sitting on the floor by the wide-open window. "Are you feeling unwell?"

"No," the guy opened his red eyes and looked at the woman with a pleading gaze. "Mom, I need the internet... just for a minute. It's very important."

"You'll manage without it!" the woman said sternly, placing a breakfast tray on the desk.

"But I have to know..."

"Silence!" Jennie cut him off with a threat in her voice, making it clear she wouldn't listen to his baseless complaints. "You brought this on yourself."

She pointed to the tray and ordered, "Eat your breakfast quickly!"

Rika obediently got up from the floor and, hiding Ethel's photo in his pants pocket, went to the desk.

"Maybe you'll listen to me?" he asked, looking at his mother hopefully.

But Jennie only glared at him, restraining herself from pulling the brat's hair. She then walked over to the window and closed it tightly.

"If you get sick, I'll beat you," she warned him. "And don't expect me to pity you after everything you've done."

Rika let out a painful sigh and, realizing it was useless to argue with her, began to eat.

When his mother left, taking the tray with her, Rika sat on the bed and stared straight ahead.

What should he do now? How could he find out about Ethelstan's fate?

Maybe he should visit the club and ask the guy's stepfather?

This idea seemed tempting to Rika.

After thinking for a while, he decided that he would sneak out of the house through the window at night and walk to South Bronx.

However, there was one major flaw in this plan. His mom had also taken all his warm clothes, including shoes and hoodies, to prevent any escape attempts.

But such a small detail couldn't stop Rika.

After struggling to wait until late evening, the guy put on three pairs of socks, stuffed a few more pairs into his pockets for later, and wore a long-sleeved shirt over two T-shirts.

Then, listening to the silence of the sleeping house, he carefully opened the window and climbed onto the windowsill.

A couple of meters from his window grew an old tree, its branches serving as an excellent ladder. All he had to do was jump onto one of them and climb down the sturdy trunk.

However, it turned out to be much harder than Rika had imagined.

He bravely leaped forward, pushing off the windowsill with his feet, and even managed to grab the thick base of a branch with his hands. But as soon as his fingers dug into the icy bark, a terrible crack resounded.

The branch was dry and brittle, and Rika fell, desperately trying to grab onto anything.

Just before hitting the ground, one of the branches slowed his fall, and he avoided serious injury, only slightly twisting his ankle.

Rejoicing at his luck, Rika got up, brushed the snow off himself, and hurried away from the yard. But after taking a few steps, he screamed in pain. The scream seemed so distant to him, as if it was coming from someone else on the next street.

The world before his eyes shrank to a tiny white dot, but soon even that faded away.

***

"You're lucky you only ended up with a sprained ankle!" his mother hissed while the paramedic wrapped his ankle with an elastic bandage.

Rika lay on the living room couch, avoiding eye contact with Etid. When he had woken up from the faint caused by the pain shock, his sister was as white as a sheet. Even her lips had turned colorless, and her eyes were red from crying.

"I thought you were dead," Etid whispered, earning a light smack on the head from their mother.

"Don't you dare talk to him!" the woman warned, and Etid obediently fell silent, only occasionally casting reproachful glances at her brother.

"You lay in the snow for twenty minutes! If I hadn't gone outside by chance, you would have frozen to death!" Jennie scolded her son.

But the guy ignored her reproaches, regretting only that he hadn't managed to escape.

After the doctor left, his mother helped Rikald hop to his room and laid him on the bed.

"I'm warning you for the last time," she said threateningly, "one more stunt, any misstep, and your life will turn into hell. Where were you trying to run?"

"Nowhere," the guy stubbornly replied.

He didn't want to confide in his mother. She wouldn't understand his motives anyway. She'd either laugh at him or, worse, beat him half to death.

"If it was 'nowhere,' I'm leaving," Jennie said irritably. "And don't even think about going near the window."

Once again, Rika was left alone with his thoughts, fears, and burning longing in his heart.

But he no longer asked fate to bring him back together with Ethelstan.

He thought, "Let Ethelstan have flown to France on another plane. Let him never think of me again. Let us never meet again. But let him be alive. Let him keep giving the world his beautiful smile."

***

The two weeks of vacation that Rika spent in bed seemed endless to him.

During all this time, he was in a state of deep dejection, lost in the maze of chaotic thoughts, fears, and hopes.

He couldn't get Ethelstan out of his head and secretly hoped to get at least some information about the victims of the crashed plane.

But his mom never returned his phone, and Etid couldn't find the list of victims in the public domain.

On the last day of vacation, when Rika could already walk on his own, Jennie finally allowed him to come down for lunch.

At the head of the table sat "Number Thirty-Three," and it took all of Rikald's self-control to refrain from being rude to him during the meal.

And there was a good reason for that...

Not only did that jerk openly gawk at Etid, constantly giving her figure a disgusting, sticky look, but he also had the audacity to say he would gladly pay for Rikald's education at a private academy for troubled guys.

"There, you won't be able to torment Jennie," the man explained the reason for his joy. "The teachers at that academy are real trainers of little, disobedient hooligans like you. It's the perfect place for you. And do you know what's most remarkable about that academy? You won't get expelled for fighting or drinking. No. You'll be whipped until there are bloody stripes on your tender, pimply butt. Tempting prospect, isn't it?"

It seemed that "Number Thirty-Three" liked the sound of his own voice.

He went on and on about the various punishments used at the academy he had chosen, but Rika was no longer listening.

The only thing he understood was that it was a residential academy, and he would have to live there at least five days a week.

"And you call that a punishment?" the guy thought mockingly.

To Rikald, it was a blessing sent from heaven!

Still, he tried not to show too much joy so that creep wouldn't suddenly change his mind.

"Can I go pack my things?" Rika asked his mother when the man finally shut up.

"Only the essentials. The school will provide you with everything else," Jennie replied without even looking at him. "And let's avoid any tantrums. You brought this on yourself."

Rika nodded and pushed aside his barely touched lunch. Let them think he had lost his appetite from fear.

He got up from the table, glanced at Etid's face, which seemed on the verge of tears, and went to pack.

Throwing underwear, socks, a few T-shirts, sweaters, and jeans into a small duffel bag, Rika climbed into his stash and retrieved the notebook with the list of his mother's lovers. He placed Ethelstan's note and Ethelstan's folded photo inside the notebook, hid it at the bottom of the bag, and lay down on the bed to wait for the new day, when a tiny ray of hope would appear in his life.