America, October 4, 1987, Riverstone, Michigan.Things break. It’s a fact. Film tears, rubber wears out, gears lose their teeth. But Simon believed that everything could be fixed, or at least he could try to do it.

 

Since six in the morning, he had been in his room, attempting to repair their family's videocassette recorder. He carefully wiped the VCR’s sensor, removing the last traces of dust. A little more oil for the bearings and one more test run…

 

“Come on,” he whispered.

 

The VCR purred like a contented cat. But the pinch rollers were still not pressing the cassette tape against the head properly. They were beyond saving; he’d have to buy new ones. Simon took his notepad and added to his to-do list for the day.

 

“Let’s see: fix the VCR; go to Kaz's bakery for bread; take the chicken out to thaw for dinner; and buy new pinch rollers at the electronics store. I think I haven't forgotten anything to write down. I wonder what time it is now,” Simon wondered, as he had to go to school today for the second class because their physics teacher was sick and no substitute could be found.

 

Looking at the clock, Simon saw that it was already eight thirty-four.

 

“Oh! I’m late!”

 

He quickly turned off the desk lamp, combed his short brown hair, grabbed his backpack, and ran downstairs to the garage for his bike.

 

Exiting the garage and closing it, he hopped on his bike and sped off toward school.

 

Simon raced along the country road—the only path connecting the forest with Riverstone. His bicycle bounced over potholes left by the autumn rains, and yellow-and-red leaves, torn from the maples by the wind, struck his face.

 

Soon, the trees thinned out, giving way to neat houses and paved streets. The city was waking up—doors slammed somewhere, snippets of conversation could be heard, and the sweet smell of fresh baking wafted from the bakery on the corner. Simon turned toward the familiar school building. It was tall, brick, with wide steps at the entrance and rows of windows reflecting the gray morning sky.

 

His friends' bicycles were already standing at the bike rack next to the battered school fence. Simon leaned his bike against the rack, attached a lock, and rushed toward the school entrance. He barely managed to get into the classroom before the bell rang. Fortunately, the teacher was not in the classroom, and Simon calmly sat down at his desk, greeting his friends as he did so.

 

“Cy, you're late today,” noted Alan, who was sitting at the desk behind Simon. “You usually come earlier.”

 

“I just got tied up fixing our family VCR,” Simon explained, pulling a worn algebra notebook from his backpack. “It broke last night when my dad wanted to watch a movie. It turned out that the magnetic tape read sensor was very dirty, and the pinch rollers were worn out and needed to be replaced. So, after school, I still have to go to the electronics parts store.”

 

“Ah, well, that explains it,” Alan nodded, losing interest in the technical details.

 

Nate, sitting to Simon's right, was nervously tapping his pen on the desk and suddenly addressed his friends:

 

“By the way, guys, did you study for today’s test?”

 

Alan instantly tensed, and his face took on a look of confusion:

 

“What test?”

 

“Don't tell me you didn't know about it,” sighed Tom, sitting to Alan's left, not taking his eyes off the book open before him.

 

“And how was I supposed to know about it?!” Alan exclaimed indignantly, his voice an octave higher.

 

“I don't know,” Tom drawled sarcastically, finally looking up from the pages of his book. “Maybe from the last math class, which was two days ago? Oh, right, you flew out of class as soon as the bell rang and didn't hear what Mrs. Martha was saying.”

 

“I had a reason for that!” Alan defended himself, waving his hands. “I wanted to get the limited edition of the comic book ‘Diesel Heart’! They finally revealed the cause of the world apocalypse and Noel Derlin’s backstory! Plus, it had the comic author Derek Bilviston’s autograph and his personal message to the reader!”

 

“Wow! Sounds cool!” Nate perked up. “Did you manage to get it?”

 

“Of course, I did,” Alan straightened up proudly. “Though, I have to admit, the price was steep—fifty bucks! But it was worth the money! And I’m sure I can sell it for triple the price in the future!”

 

“That’s undoubtedly very good,” Tom said patiently, “but it doesn't change the fact that you didn't prepare for the test.”

 

Alan clutched his chest dramatically:

 

“Oh, you'd think it was the failure of my entire life! Not preparing for a silly math test! Shame on me! Is that what you expected to hear, Tom?”

 

“No, I…”

 

“And anyway, why are you guys so worried about just another test?” Alan interrupted him.

 

“We’re not worried,” Simon replied calmly, carefully separating the stuck pages of his notebook.

 

“And another thing,” Alan continued to complain, “why didn't you tell me about it?!”

 

The friends exchanged glances, and guilty expressions appeared on their faces.

 

“I thought Nate would tell you,” Tom admitted.

 

“And I thought you would tell him, Tom, or Simon,” Nate replied, puzzled.

 

“I thought you guys would tell him about it,” Simon added, shrugging.

 

Tom put his book down on the edge of the desk and shook his head:

 

“Well, I admit, that's our mistake. Although I’m sure that even if you had known about the upcoming test, you still wouldn't have prepared for it.”

 

“Yeah, I wouldn’t have crammed the whole textbook like you, Thomas,” Alan agreed. “But I would have at least prepared some cheat sheets!”

 

“Come on, don't worry about it, Alan,” Simon reassured him. “I’ll help you if you need it.”

 

“Thanks, Cy, you’re a real friend,” Alan sighed with relief. “Not like this bookworm.”

 

Tom irritably rolled his eyes and pointedly returned to reading his book, ignoring his friend’s barbs.

 

“By the way, guys,” Nate suddenly remembered, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “I just recalled that we’re supposed to have a substitute teacher for math today.”

 

Alan's eyes lit up with hope:

 

“Oh, yeah, that’s right, I completely forgot to mention it.”

 

“Mrs. Martha got sick yesterday, and they’re supposed to put Miss Rose in as a substitute,” Tom replied.

 

Hearing this news, Alan couldn't suppress a pleased grin that spread across his face:

 

“Talk about luck! Looks like we won’t have a test today, guys!”

 

“I wouldn't be so sure about that if I were you,” Tom observed coolly, not taking his eyes off his book as he turned another page.

 

Just then, familiar clicking sounds of heels were heard in the hallway, approaching the classroom door. The students instinctively straightened up, anticipating the teacher's arrival.

 

The door opened, and Miss Rose entered the classroom—a young African-American woman about twenty-five years old, with intelligent brown eyes and a gentle smile. She usually taught chemistry to the upper grades but could also substitute for math and literature. She wore a severe dark blue blouse and a black pencil skirt, and her lush, curly hair was neatly styled.

 

“Good morning, class,” she greeted the students in her melodic voice.

 

“Good morning, Miss Rose!” the students replied in unison, rising from their seats.

 

Miss Rose walked to the teacher's desk, neatly laid out her things—a register, pens, a small stack of papers—and gently adjusted her curly hairstyle, moving an unruly strand away from her face.

 

“Well, children,” she began, addressing the class, “I’m substituting for math today because Mrs. Martha is ill. The plan is for us to have a test today, and I wanted to cancel it…”

 

“Yes!” Alan rejoiced mentally, barely holding back a satisfied smile.

 

“…but Mrs. Martha insisted that I administer it,” Miss Rose continued with an apologetic smile. “So, take out your pens, pencils, and erasers—you’ll be taking the test.”

 

“Damn it!” Alan muttered quietly.

 

“Come on, Alan, all is not lost yet,” Nate whispered to him, leaning closer. “Maybe she’ll let us cheat? Like she lets us in her chemistry classes.”

 

“I’ll have to hope for that,” Alan mumbled hopelessly.

 

Miss Rose walked through the classroom, handing out test sheets to all the students. Her heels tapped steadily on the linoleum, and a light scent of her perfume—something floral and subtle—hung in the air.

 

Finishing the distribution, she returned to her desk, sat down, took out her register, and started writing something.

 

“Alright, children,” she said, without lifting her head from the register, “let's do this: you be quiet, and I’ll pretend I don't see you cheating on the test, okay?”

 

“Okay!” the entire class said with relief, and the students set about their tests with new energy.

 

Simon, having quickly finished his version, began helping Nate and Alan with their assignments, quietly whispering answers and explaining the solutions. Tom, on the other hand, concentrated on solving his own test independently, periodically correcting things and checking his calculations.

 

Soon, all four finished their work, handed their sheets to Miss Rose, and continued to talk quietly among themselves.

 

“Hey, guys, what are everyone’s plans for the weekend?” Alan asked, leaning back in his chair, clearly satisfied with how everything had turned out.

 

“I plan to continue writing my book,” Tom answered first, pulling out the worn notebook they all knew from his backpack.

 

“And I plan to go to the movies to see ‘It is Among Us’,” Nate added, a hint of anticipation in his voice.

 

“Wait, Nate,” Tom became interested, “isn't that the movie about a group of researchers in a submarine descending to an underwater station in the Mariana Trench because it stopped communicating?”

 

“Yep, that's exactly it!” Nate nodded. “Have you seen it?”

 

“No, I haven't seen it, but I read the book, and the movie is just an adaptation,” Tom explained.

 

“I know it’s a book adaptation, but I haven't read it.”

 

“Can you get a hold of the movie on tape sometime?” Tom asked. “I want to see how the authors adapted that work.”

 

“Sure,” Nate agreed.

 

“Got it,” Alan turned to Simon. “What about you, Cy? What are you doing this weekend?”

 

“I don't know,” Simon shrugged. “I’m not used to making plans, even for tomorrow, as I rarely manage to carry them out. I usually make a plan during the day.”

 

“So you don't have any plans at all?” Alan clarified.

 

“No, I don't have plans for the weekend.”

 

“Then maybe we could hang out sometime?”

 

“We could, in theory,” Simon nodded, “if nothing comes up, of course.”

 

A sharp bell cut through the air of the classroom, making the students look up from their notebooks. The next class was gym. The students dispersed into the locker rooms: the boys headed to the weight room, the girls to the gymnastics area.

 

The boys’ locker room smelled of old sneakers and deodorant; metal lockers rattled from the constant slamming of doors. Simon pulled on a faded T-shirt and sweatpants that had seen better days.

 

The weight room greeted them with a familiar mix of rubber, metal, and sweat. High windows let in daylight that fell in stripes across the perimeter mats and exercise machines. Mr. Coleman, the gym teacher with a military posture and graying temples, led a standard warm-up: jumping jacks, bends, stretching. After that, everyone got down to their own business.

 

Some were enthusiastically hitting the punching bag, letting out the energy accumulated during the day. A few students were using the machines, straining and puffing under the weight of the iron. And some simply settled on the benches along the wall, counting the minutes until the end of the lesson and glancing at the clock secretly.

 

Out of the four friends, only Alan was truly athletic. He was currently lying on the bench press, focused on lifting a barbell with twenty-kilogram plates. Simon and Nate stood on the sides, ready to spot their friend if necessary, though this weight was already familiar to Alan. Tom, meanwhile, settled into the seat of one of the exercise machines, but instead of working out, he was engrossed in reading a worn paperback book. He looked completely detached from his surroundings, periodically turning the pages.

 

“Hey, Tommy, what are you reading?” Alan asked between sets, wiping the sweat from his face with a towel.

 

“‘Dragon's Misfortune,’ why?” Tom replied, not taking his eyes off the page.

 

“Nothing special,” Alan smirked, lying back under the barbell. “You’re just reading it so intently that you almost crashed into a lamppost on the way to school. And really, who reads a book while riding a bike?”

 

“I was just really gripped by the plot of this book,” Tom explained, finally looking up. “It tells about the ordinary life of dragons and how all their idyll collapsed with the arrival of an unknown disease in their cities. This plague painfully kills one dragon after another, and the main characters are just trying to survive in such a situation and not go crazy like the other dragons.”

 

“Wow! That sounds really exciting!” Nate exclaimed with enthusiasm, forgetting his spotting duties.

 

“Yeah, the plot description caught my attention too,” Simon agreed.

 

Nate suddenly slapped his forehead, as if remembering something important:

 

“Oh! By the way, Simon, I was digging through my old audio recordings when I was looking for a sound I needed, and I stumbled upon the first cassette I ever recorded. You, Miranda, and I were testing the functionality of my audio recorder on it. And I, well... I remembered that she went missing. I mean, you said she just didn't show up once, then she didn't show up for several more days, and you said you were worried about it. So, I wanted to ask—did she come back?”

 

Alan finished his set and slammed the barbell onto the racks, breathing heavily.

 

“Actually, that’s a good question, Nate,” he said, sitting on the bench. “Did she come back, Cy?”

 

“No, she still hasn't come back,” Simon replied quietly, a note of old sorrow in his voice.

 

“Is anything known about her at all?” Tom asked with curiosity, finally putting his book down.

 

“Nothing. She disappeared five months ago and hasn't shown up since. I tried waiting for her in the evenings and calling her, but it was no use.”

 

Silence fell among the friends for a moment, broken only by the distant sounds of other students working out. Each one silently built their own conjecture about what might have happened to Simon's friend. Tom nervously fiddled with the corner of a page in his book, while Alan and Nate thoughtfully scratched their chins.

 

“Maybe she just found someone else?” Alan suggested.

 

“I doubt it,” Tom shook his head. “Simon and Miranda were friends... how long were you friends, may I ask, my friend?”

 

“Eight years.”

 

“See, they were friends for eight years, and I think Miranda would have at least told you if she had found someone else. It's probably something different. Maybe she just moved, and her move was so sudden that she simply didn't have time to let you know?”

 

“I don't know,” Alan said skeptically. “That sounds kind of implausible.”

 

“As a matter of fact, that scenario is very plausible, Alan,” Tom countered, displeased.

 

Nate decided to join the discussion:

 

“Or maybe she just went on a very long camping trip? Like you told me, Simon, Miranda often went camping with her family, and she had some really long trips. Maybe this is her longest trip yet? What if this happened: she wakes up, her dad comes to her and says, ‘Hey, daughter! Your mom and I decided to go on an exciting cross-America hike! So, pack your bags immediately!’”

 

“Nate, don't talk nonsense!” Alan scoffed. “What kind of sudden hike? What's the rush?”

 

“Yes, Nate, that really is an unrealistic guess,” Tom agreed. “I still think she just changed her place of residence and forgot to tell Simon about it.”

 

“Well, I think Miranda just found some guy and ran off in an unknown direction,” Alan stubbornly maintained his position.

 

“That theory has its merits,” Tom mused, “but I think Miranda would be unlikely to treat Simon so rudely.”

 

“Listen, I think she…”

 

Simon stopped listening to his friends. The mere reminder of Miranda upset him, and now his friends were coming up with such unpleasant guesses. Simon most wanted to believe Nate's guess. The gym class ended with the monotonous whistle of the coach, but the friends were still building their theories about Miranda’s disappearance.

 

Their engrossed discussion was interrupted by the bell for history class, where Mr. Harrington announced a group project. Each team had to create a diorama recreating an important historical event. Simon's friends were assigned the topic of the construction of the Hoover Dam—a massive engineering project from the Great Depression era. After a short debate about who would be responsible for what, the guys decided to split up right after school. Nate and Alan would go to the hardware store for model-making materials, while Simon and Tom would go to the city library to collect historical facts and photographs.

 

The rest of the school day passed at its usual pace—literature, English, chemistry—nothing remarkable happened. When the final bell rang, the friends left the school building along with a crowd of other teenagers. The sun was already setting in the west, painting the brick walls of the school in warm golden tones. The guys took their bikes from the racks at the main entrance, quickly said goodbye, and rode off to their separate tasks.

 

Simon and Tom pedaled leisurely toward the outskirts of the city, where the city library building was hidden among old houses. The two-story structure of red brick with high arched windows looked like a small fortress of knowledge. Ivy covered the walls, giving the building a fairy-tale, slightly abandoned look, and the massive oak doors with forged handles creaked upon entry.

 

Inside, the library greeted them with subdued light and the smell of old paper mixed with the scent of lemon oil for polishing furniture. High, dark wood bookshelves stretched to the ceiling, creating a labyrinth of narrow aisles. A soft carpet muffled their footsteps, and an antique grandfather clock ticked in the far corner.

 

At a round table by the entrance sat Mrs. Paterson—an elderly librarian with gray hair pulled back into a neat bun and glasses on a chain. After consulting with Mrs. Paterson, who enthusiastically showed them the right section and recommended several especially valuable editions, the friends gathered a stack of books about the Hoover Dam construction.

 

They settled at a far table by the window. Simon delved into reading, methodically writing down important facts and dates in his worn notebook. About an hour passed when Tom suddenly put down his pen and looked up from his book. He studied his friend's profile for a while, clearly bracing himself, and then cautiously asked:

 

“Do you want to talk about Miranda?”

 

Simon's pen froze mid-word. He didn't look up, as if Tom's words required time to sink in.

 

“No, thanks. I don't want to talk about it, and I don't see the point. I got over it a long time ago. Of course, at first, it was hard for me to get used to Miranda not coming to our evening meetings by the stone fence. I kept waiting for her and calling her, but, as you know, it didn't help. I'm still worried about my friend, but there's nothing I can do in this situation—except hope that she's okay. Because of this, I often have anxious thoughts and doubts, so I try not to think about it at all.”

 

Tom looked at him, his eyebrows slightly raised. His gaze held confusion or perhaps doubt. He turned a page, as if giving Simon a reprieve, then cautiously asked:

 

“Have you tried climbing over the stone fence?”

 

Simon slowly put down his book. His friend's question made him think. Indeed. After a long pause, he quietly said:

 

“No.”

 

That short word hung in the air between them, full of unexpected possibilities and missed chances. The friends exchanged glances, but said nothing more. They continued working in silence, broken only by the rustle of turning pages and the squeak of chairs.

 

When it got completely dark, the guys gathered their notes, neatly stacked the books, and returned them to Mrs. Paterson. Thanking the librarian for her help, they went outside.

 

At the library entrance, the friends said goodbye—Tom clapped Simon on the shoulder, wished him luck, and rode home. Simon stood for a while longer, looking at the illuminated library windows, and then he too got on his bike and slowly rolled down the empty streets, thinking about Tom’s words.

 

Shaking off the persistent thoughts, Simon pedaled harder. The wind ruffled his hair, carrying the remnants of his anxiety away into the gray sky above the city.

 

First thing—Simon had to stop by the electronics parts store on Main Street. The bell above the door greeted him with a plaintive squeak, and the clerk with greasy fingers and an indifferent look reluctantly dug up the necessary pinch rollers for the VCR from the depths of the storage room. Fifteen bucks—expensive, but the VCR was dead weight without them.

 

Next stop—Kaz’s Bakery. Even a block away, the air began to smell like home: yeast dough, vanilla, and something else warm, comforting. Simon locked his bike to a lamppost, checking the lock twice—people liked to steal wheels in this area.

 

Pushing open the bakery door, he stepped into a cloud of aromas. Cinnamon tickled his nostrils; fresh bread beckoned with its golden crust from behind the glass display case. The owner himself stood behind the counter—Kaz, an African-American man of thirty-five, his shoulders seemed too wide for the cramped space. His dark skin glistened from the heat of the ovens, and his white T-shirt had long turned into a map of his workday: flour stains on his chest, batter splashes on his sleeves, a trace of berry jam on his stomach. His powerful hands, scarred with thin marks from knives and burns from the ovens, lay on the countertop, his fingers drumming a nervous rhythm.

 

On the other side of the counter stood a figure familiar to Simon—it was Linda. A girl of about seventeen, with tousled blonde hair, a worn denim jacket a size too big, and well-used sneakers. Her shoulders were squared, but her hands were shaking.

 

The ring of the bell above the door was swallowed by the tense silence. Neither Kaz nor Linda even turned around.

 

“I’m sorry, Linda,” Kaz’s voice was soft but firm. “I understand how hard it is for you at the shelter. Hell, I know what it's like to have nothing in your pockets. But I can't give you the rolls on credit.” He ran his palm across his face, leaving a white streak of flour on his cheek. “It's not because I'm greedy. Lord knows I'd give you my last if I could. It’s just…” He gestured toward the old scale, the peeling paint on the walls, the taped-up window. “See all this? Every month I wonder if I’ll have enough money to last until the next. I had a bigger, better bakery in Detroit. I gave credit there too, thinking—people are good, they’ll pay it back. They didn’t. I had to close down. Don’t get me wrong, I know you’re a very decent person and always pay your debts, but I need the money now.”

 

Linda nodded, pursing her lips. Something painful flickered in her eyes.

 

“I understand, Kaz. Have a good evening.”

 

“You too, Linda.”

 

Linda turned to leave and nearly ran into Simon. Their eyes met for a second, but she quickly looked away and headed for the door. Simon watched her through the steamed-up glass, then walked up to the counter. Kaz was diligently wiping the already clean countertop, clearly needing an activity for his hands.

 

“Did something happen?” Simon asked, even though he had heard everything.

 

Kaz tucked the cloth into the pocket of his plaid apron.

 

“Nothing much. She wanted to take cinnamon rolls on credit. I had to refuse.” He shrugged, but there was bitterness in his voice. “You see for yourself, I'm barely making ends meet.”

 

“Seriously?” Simon raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I thought business was booming. You're the only bakery in town, and you bake magically good bread.”

 

Kaz chuckled, but without humor.

 

“That’s true, no competition. But the landlord raises the rent every six months, groceries get more expensive, and the number of customers doesn’t increase. I try everything to attract people—discounts, promotions.” He glanced around his small empire of flour and sugar. “Work has literally become my home. I sleep on a cot in the back room because I can't afford an apartment.”

 

“Wow… I didn't realize things were that serious.”

 

“It’s nothing,” Kaz straightened up, shaking off his gloomy mood like flour from his apron. “I’ll manage somehow. It’s not the first time.” He slapped his palms on the counter. “Alright, enough whining. You didn't come for my complaints, but for fresh baking. The usual? Biscuit toast and a loaf of bread?”

 

“Yes, please.”

 

“That’ll be fifteen dollars and fifty cents.”

 

While Kaz was putting the order together, Simon looked at the display case. The cinnamon rolls lay in the corner, temptingly dusted with powdered sugar and emitting a mind-blowing aroma.

 

When Kaz returned with the bag, Simon nodded toward the rolls:

 

“And three cinnamon rolls, please.”

 

Kaz stopped, the bag frozen in his hands. His gaze became understanding, almost grateful. He silently added the rolls to the order.

 

“Plus six dollars,” he said quietly.

 

Simon handed over a crumpled twenty-dollar bill, received his change, took the paper bag with the baked goods, and headed for the exit without a word.

 

Stepping out of the bakery, Simon unlocked his bike, carefully placed the bag with the toast and loaf into his worn leather satchel, and kept the cinnamon rolls in his hand. Pushing off the sidewalk, he rolled leisurely down the street.

 

Linda couldn’t suppress a satisfied smile. She stood in the doorway of the alley where she had waited and watched Simon ride away. When Simon disappeared from view, she quickly walked up to the bakery, opened the door, and, poking her head in, quietly called:

 

“Kaz?”

 

Kaz sighed with relief, his eyes shining with genuine warmth.

 

“Here you go,” he said, handing her a bag with three hot cinnamon rolls dusted with powdered sugar. “Here are the three you asked for.”

 

Linda took the bag, and its warmth comforted her palms.

 

“Thank you, Kaz,” she whispered, her voice filled with sincere gratitude. “I’ll definitely pay you back.”

 

“I know you will,” Kaz waved her off. “Run along before they get cold.”

 

Simon continued to pedal hard on his bicycle, and soon the smooth city asphalt gradually gave way to the packed sand of the country road. His bicycle wheels rustled over small stones, kicking up a cloud of dust. To his right, a massive wall of roughly hewn boulders held together with concrete stretched out. The gray blocks, covered with moss and cracks from time, rose a good six feet high, and went just as far underground.

 

This wall was built by the city's founders over a century ago to protect against the wild beasts that lived in the dense forest beyond the barrier. It encircled the forest massif with a massive stone ring that let no one in and no one out. At least, that's what the adults said. Simon knew every stone of this wall; he grew up next to it, played in its shadow, and it was right there that he met Miranda.

 

Arriving at his house—a small two-story structure with peeling blue paint on the shutters—Simon was about to put his bike in the garage, but something stopped him. It was as if an invisible force pulled him toward the fence. Putting his bicycle on its kickstand, he walked up to the wall and placed his palm against the cold, rough stone.

 

“No one is here, Miranda,” Simon said quietly, addressing the wall as if it were his old friend. “You never came. I shouldn't have believed you would return, and I shouldn't have…”

 

After standing for a little longer in vain hope, Simon sighed in annoyance and went to wheel his bike into the garage.

 

The house greeted him with its usual silence and the smell of his mom's perfume. Simon took off his shoes in the entryway, carefully placing his boots on the rubber mat, hung his down vest on the hook, and walked into the kitchen.

 

The kitchen was the heart of the home—small, with a wooden table in the middle and an antique dresser that had belonged to his grandmother. Sunlight filtered through the curtains with a small floral pattern, coloring everything in warm golden tones. Simon took the bag of bread from his satchel and carefully placed the loaf and biscuit toast in the bread box. Then he opened the refrigerator, took out the chicken wrapped in paper, and put it in the sink to thaw.

 

Taking his satchel, he went up the creaking wooden stairs to the second floor and headed to his room. Entering his room, he took his satchel off his shoulder and pulled out a small packet with the new pinch rollers. He carefully set the satchel by the bed, and settled himself at his desk. He flipped the switch on the desk lamp—yellow light flooded the work surface, illuminating the tools laid out: a set of different-sized screwdrivers, tweezers, a small flashlight, and a tray of screws.

 

The VCR, disassembled the day before, lay before him like a patient on an operating table. The old pinch rollers were in a deplorable state: the rubber was cracked, had become stiff, and had lost its elasticity. Simon carefully replaced them with the new, black, springy rollers. Checking how they rotated, he reassembled the mechanism, not forgetting to oil the bearings. Then he took a cassette—one of his parents' old recordings—and inserted it into the VCR. He pressed 'Play,' waiting for the familiar whirring and the steady movement of the tape. The tape ran smoothly, without jerks or sagging.

 

Pressing the stop button, he carefully ejected the cassette, unplugged the VCR, and screwed the cover back on. The final touches—turning off the lamp and putting the tools back into their boxes, each in its place.

 

Taking the repaired VCR, Simon cautiously went downstairs to the living room. Simon connected the VCR to the television, checking all the connections twice: the RCA cables, the antenna input. Only the final, crucial test remained. Turning on the TV and the VCR, he took the first cassette off the shelf. "Night of the Twelve Lanterns"—an excellent choice for checking picture and sound quality. The cassette slid into the slot with a satisfying click. Simon pressed "Play" and held his breath in anticipation. Familiar frames flashed on the television screen—the studio logo, then the first scenes of the movie. The image was clear, without lines or static; the sound was pure. The VCR worked flawlessly. Simon couldn't suppress a slight smile at his completed work. He let the movie play for another minute, enjoying the result of his work, then stopped playback, ejected the cassette, and turned off the equipment.

 

The job was done. Another small victory over broken things, another mechanism brought back to life by his hands. Satisfied with himself, Simon went up to his room, already planning what he would do next. Although Simon knew what was next—homework, which wouldn't disappear by itself. Math, chemistry, English, and so on down the list.

 

Taking the textbooks out of his satchel, Simon placed them on his desk, but his gaze fell on his homemade radiotelephone, which he had invented six months ago, trying to find a way to communicate with Miranda after her parents forbade her from using their landline phone. Simon didn't know the reason for this decision, but he assumed it had something to do with Miranda, and she just didn't want to tell him. Since then, they had only communicated via that homemade radiotelephone.

 

The problem was that the radiotelephone worked on a low frequency, and anyone with a radio receiver could easily eavesdrop on their conversations. So Simon improved the system. Three weeks of trial and error, three burned microchips, and one almost-exploded induction coil—and the system acquired protection, a primitive but effective analog defense, a scrambling circuit. The principle was elegantly simple: a special circuit flips the voice audio frequencies upside down—low tones became high, and high tones became low. Human speech turned into unintelligible electronic chirping and gurgling. On the receiving end, an identical circuit performed the reverse conversion, restoring speech in all its glory.

 

He built these personal radiotelephones for all his friends. Each device was tuned to an individual frequency, and to call a specific person, he just had to press the corresponding button with their initials. The highlight of the system was the color indicators, which allowed him to determine who was calling without picking up the receiver—a row of small light bulbs along the phone's side panel. Yellow meant Tom, red meant Alan, orange meant Nate, and pink meant Miranda. If a signal came in on an unknown frequency, a regular white light bulb on the opposite side of the device would light up, as if warning of an uninvited guest on the air, but the white light had never come on.

 

Simon tried to focus on the formulas, but his thoughts persistently drifted to the pink light, which had been silent for three days now. Unable to stand it, he put down his pen, pulled the phone closer, and, picking up the receiver, pressed the button with the initials "M.R." First, the familiar crackling sounds were heard from the speaker—the system was tuning to the frequency—then measured beeps, echoing into the emptiness of the airwaves. Silence again, then long beeps again. On the fourth beep, Simon couldn't bear it and hung up the receiver.

 

He tried to concentrate on his homework again, but it was useless. Again and again, he was distracted by his radiotelephone, again and again he picked up the receiver, called Miranda, but only heard the beeps.

 

Finally finishing his homework more through sheer willpower than attention, Simon neatly put his textbooks into his satchel and stretched out tiredly on his bed. The same question kept spinning in his head: “Where did Miranda go?” And following it, like a shadow, another thought crept in: “What if I climb over the fence? What if I can only find the answers there?”

 

This idea had haunted Simon even before Thomas voiced it aloud. For a long time, he was stopped by the local legend of the "grave claws"—a boogeyman story used to scare all the children in the district. But Miranda dispelled these silly superstitions, saying that she had encountered no one behind the fence except for birds and small rodents. Her words back then sounded like a liberation from childhood nightmares. But even if he decided to take this step, doing it alone would be reckless. Such an undertaking required the support of friends, careful planning, and perhaps a dash of that teenage recklessness that turns an ordinary day into an adventure.

 

Simon's gaze fell on the old wall clock opposite the bed—a relic from his grandfather's time, which announced every hour with a solemn chime throughout the house. The hands pointed to twenty to eight. His parents would be home from work soon, tired and hungry. It was time to go down to the kitchen and conjure up dinner—a small household chore that brought him pleasure. After all, cooking was the same as constructing, just with different tools and materials.

 

Going down to the kitchen, Simon opened the refrigerator. The thawed chicken was already in the sink, giving off a faint, raw smell. Tonight’s menu was his signature spaghetti with chicken meatballs. Nothing complicated, but this dish always met with his parents’ approval.

 

From the freezer, he retrieved a bag of grated carrots—his mom's prep—and from the vegetable drawer, he took a small onion. Peeling and dicing the onion, Simon turned the burner to maximum and began shaping the ground meat into neat meatballs. He carefully laid them on the hot pan and began to fry them until golden brown. The meatballs sizzled as they hit the hot oil, filling the kitchen with an appetizing aroma. Simon browned them, then added the onion and carrots. The vegetables quickly released their juice, mixing with the meat into an aromatic base. Two tablespoons of flour, a quick stir, a little water and ketchup—and the sauce began to thicken. Turning the heat down to minimum and covering the pan, Simon left the meatballs to simmer.

 

Just then, the water in the pot boiled, and he tossed in the spaghetti, remembering to stir them in the first few minutes. While everything was cooking, Simon began setting the table. The plates went into the microwave to warm up—warm dishes would retain the meal's temperature longer. Forks and napkins took their places on the table. The table was ready. Returning to the stove, Simon felt he had forgotten something. Quickly scanning his workspace, he realized—the kettle! Hurriedly filling the kettle with water, he placed it on a free burner.

 

Ten minutes later, everything was ready. The spaghetti was drained, neatly plated, and topped with three juicy meatballs, smothered in thick, aromatic sauce. Brewing the tea, Simon decided to taste his creation.

 

The pasta was perfectly cooked—it was easy to chew and didn't stick together, although it was a little light on salt. The meatballs were juicy and tender, easy to chew, and the sauce perfectly complemented the whole picture—not too thick, but not watery, just right. Simon quickly emptied his plate, washing down dinner with strong tea. After washing his dishes, he sat down to wait for his parents.

 

Soon, the familiar muffled hum of their old Ford's engine was heard outside the window. Simon got up from the table and headed to the front door. Stepping out onto the porch to meet his parents, he immediately tripped over something small and hard. Bending down, Simon made out a small, tape-sealed box in the semi-darkness—clearly a package, but it was too dark to see what was written on it.

 

The Ford's engine died, and his parents got out of the car, heading toward the house. Holding the mysterious package in his hands, Simon approached the edge of the porch, ready to greet them.

 

“Hi, Dad! Hi, Mom!” Simon greeted them happily.

 

“Hi to you too, son,” his father replied, pulling off his jacket.

 

“Hello, dear,” Mom smiled, inhaling the aromas from the kitchen. “What is that you're holding?”

 

“I don't know,” Simon turned the box over in his hands. “It was lying here on the porch.”

 

“Someone must have mistaken our house for another,” his father shrugged. “Put it on the table, you'll figure it out later. How was your day?”

 

“Fine, nothing special happened today... Oh! I completely forgot—I fixed the VCR!”

 

“No kidding!” his father exclaimed with delight. “So what was wrong with it in the end?”

 

“Nothing critical. The sensor was just dusty, the bearings were out of oil, and the pinch rollers were worn out and weren't pressing the magnetic tape against the head properly. So I had to buy new ones, but they weren't expensive. I checked—the VCR is working perfectly.”

 

“Excellent!” Dad rubbed his hands contentedly. “Let's watch the movie I rented the other day together this weekend. ‘Night of the Twelve Lanterns.’ They told me it's a great adventure picture!”

 

“We’ll definitely watch it,” Mom agreed, taking her work bag off her shoulder. “Now, come on, son, go to the table, you need to eat! Dinner is ready—you guessed perfectly! Spaghetti with meatballs—my favorite!”

 

“Enjoy your meal, Mom!”

 

“Thank you, son!” she replied.

 

His parents walked into the house, and Simon followed them into the kitchen. Placing the package on the table, he sat down in his spot to have dinner with them again.

 

“What is that box?” his mother asked, looking at the package with curiosity. “I wonder who it's from?”

 

“I don't know, Mom.”

 

“Who is it from?” his father asked.

 

Simon looked at the box, gathering his thoughts and strength.

 

“It's... it's from Miranda.”

 

His father raised his eyebrows in surprise:

 

“No kidding! From your friend who disappeared out of the blue three months ago?”

 

“Five months ago,” Simon corrected quietly.

 

“Yes, five months ago, sorry. What’s in it?”

 

“I don't know yet; I haven't had time to open it.”

 

“Then open it now, and we'll find out together!” his mother suggested.

 

“No, Jay, that's his private business,” his father gently stopped her. “Let him go to his room and open it there, if you want to be alone, Simon, of course.”

 

“Yes, o-okay, I... I'll go to my room,” Simon mumbled, his voice trembling slightly with excitement.

 

“Alright, go on, we won't hold you up.”

 

“Yes, Simmy, go,” his mother added with understanding.

 

Simon took the box from the table and, trying not to run but barely containing his impatience, went up to his room. Flipping the switch on his desk lamp, he sat down at his desk and examined the entire box again, not wanting to miss any detail. The address was written in Miranda's familiar handwriting, and her careless signature adorned the corner.

 

Placing the package on the desk, Simon reached for his tool drawer...

 

“Come on, Alan, all is not lost yet,” Nate whispered to him, leaning closer. “Maybe she’ll let us cheat? Like she does in her chemistry classes.”

 

“I’ll have to hope so,” Alan mumbled hopelessly.

 

Miss Rose walked through the classroom, handing out test papers to all the students. Her heels clicked rhythmically on the linoleum, and a light scent of her perfume—something floral and subtle—lingered in the air. After finishing the distribution, she returned to the desk, sat down, took out her register, and began writing something.

 

“Alright, children,” she said, without lifting her head from the register, “let’s do this: you keep quiet, and I’ll pretend I don’t see you copying the test, okay?”

 

“Okay!” the entire class said in relief, and the students, with renewed energy, set about their tests.

 

Simon, having quickly finished his version, began to help Nate and Alan with their assignments, quietly giving answers and explaining the solutions. Tom, on the other hand, focused on solving his test independently, occasionally making corrections and checking his calculations. Soon, all four finished their work, handed their sheets to Miss Rose, and continued to talk quietly among themselves.

 

“Hey, guys, what are everyone’s plans for the weekend?” Alan inquired, leaning back in his chair, clearly pleased with how things had turned out.

 

“I plan to continue writing my book,” Tom replied first, taking out the familiar, worn notebook from his backpack.

 

“I plan to go to the movies to see ‘It Is Among Us’,” Nate added, a sense of anticipation in his voice.

 

“Wait, Nate,” Tom became interested, “is that film by any chance about a group of researchers in a submarine descending to an underwater station in the Mariana Trench because it stopped communicating?”

 

“Yep, that’s exactly it!” Nate nodded. “Have you watched it already?”

 

“No, I haven't watched it, but I read the book, and the film is just an adaptation,” Tom explained.

 

“I know it's a book adaptation, but I haven't read it.”

 

“Can you try to get a tape of the movie sometime?” Tom asked. “I’d like to see how the authors adapted such a work.”

 

“Alright,” Nate agreed.

 

“Got it,” Alan turned to Simon. “And what about you, Sy, what will you be doing this weekend?”

 

“I don’t know,” Simon shrugged. “I’m not used to making plans at all, even for tomorrow, as I rarely manage to carry them out. I usually make my plan during the day.”

 

“So, you don’t have any plans?” Alan clarified.

 

“No, I don’t have plans for the weekend.”

 

“Then maybe we can hang out sometime?”

 

“We could, in theory,” Simon nodded, “if nothing comes up, of course.”

 

A sharp bell cut through the air of the classroom, making the students lift their heads from their notebooks. The next lesson was Physical Education.

 

The students separated into the locker rooms: the boys headed to the gym, the girls to the gymnasium. The boys' locker room smelled of old sneakers and deodorant, and the metal lockers rattled from the constant slamming of doors. Simon pulled on his faded T-shirt and sweatpants that had seen better days.

 

The gym greeted them with the familiar mixture of rubber, metal, and sweat. Tall windows let in daylight, which fell in stripes onto the mats and machines arranged around the perimeter. Mr. Coleman, the PE teacher with a military posture and graying temples, led the usual warm-up: jumping jacks, bends, stretching. After that, everyone went about their own business.

 

Some excitedly pounded the punching bag, releasing the energy accumulated throughout the day. A few students were using the weights, groaning heavily under the pressure of the iron. And some just settled on the benches along the wall, counting the minutes until the end of the lesson and glancing stealthily at the clock.

 

Of the four friends, Alan was the only truly athletic one. He was currently lying on the bench press, concentrating on lifting the barbell with forty-pound plates. Simon and Nate stood on the sides, ready to spot their friend if necessary, although this weight was already familiar to Alan.

 

Tom, meanwhile, settled into the seat of one of the exercise machines, but instead of working out, he became engrossed in reading a worn paperback book. He looked completely detached from his surroundings, occasionally turning pages.

 

“Hey, Tommy, what are you reading?” Alan asked between sets, wiping sweat from his face with a towel.

 

“Dragon's Misfortune, why?” Tom replied, without taking his eyes off the page.

 

“Oh, nothing special,” Alan smirked, lying back under the barbell. “It’s just that you’re so absorbed in reading it that you almost crashed into a lamppost on your way to school. And really, who reads a book while cycling?”

 

“I was just really hooked by the plot of this book,” Tom explained, finally looking up. “It tells about the ordinary life of dragons and how all their idyll crumbled with the arrival of an unknown disease in their cities. This plague agonizingly kills one dragon after another, and the main characters are simply trying to survive in such a situation and not go insane like the other dragons.”

 

“Wow! That sounds really captivating!” Nate exclaimed excitedly, forgetting his spotting duties.

 

“Yeah, the plot description got me too,” Simon agreed.

 

Nate suddenly slapped his forehead, as if remembering something important:

 

“Oh! By the way, Simon, I was digging through my old audio recordings when I was looking for a specific sound, and I stumbled upon the first cassette I ever recorded. You, me, and Miranda were checking the functionality of my tape recorder on it. And I... well, it... I remembered that she went missing. I mean, you said she just didn’t show up one time, then she didn't come for several more days, and you said you were worried about it. So, I wanted to ask—did she ever come back?”

 

Alan finished his set and slammed the barbell onto the racks with a clank, breathing heavily.

 

“That’s actually a good question, Nate,” he said, sitting on the bench. “Did she come back, Sy?”

 

“No, she still hasn't returned,” Simon answered quietly, a note of old sadness in his voice.

 

“Is anything known about her at all?” Tom asked curiously, finally putting his book down.

 

“Nothing. She disappeared five months ago and hasn't shown up since. I tried waiting for her in the evenings and calling her, but to no avail.”

 

For a moment, silence reigned among the friends, broken only by the distant sounds of other students training. Everyone silently guessed what might have happened to Simon's friend. Tom nervously fiddled with the corner of his book page, while Alan and Nate thoughtfully scratched their chins.

 

“Maybe she just found someone else?” Alan suggested.

 

“I doubt it,” Tom shook his head. “Simon and Miranda were friends... how long have you two been friends, if I may ask, my friend?”

 

“Eight years.”

 

“Well, they’ve been friends for eight years, and I think Miranda could have at least said she found someone else. It's likely something else. Maybe she just moved, and her move was so sudden that she simply didn’t have time to let you know?”

 

“I don't know,” Alan said skeptically. “That sounds kind of implausible.”

 

“Actually, that option is very plausible, Alan,” Tom countered, displeased.

 

Nate decided to join the discussion:

 

“Or maybe she just went on a very long hike? You told me, Simon, that Miranda often went hiking with her family, and she had some really long trips. Maybe this is her most extended hike? What if this happened to her: she wakes up, her dad comes over and says, ‘Hey, sweetheart! Your mom and I decided to go on an exciting hike across all of America! So pack your bags urgently!’”

 

“Nate, don’t talk nonsense!” Alan scoffed. “What sudden hike? What's the rush?”

 

“Yeah, Nate, that really is an unrealistic guess,” Tom agreed. “I still think she just changed her place of residence and forgot to tell Simon about it.”

 

“Well, I think Miranda just found some guy and ran off in an unknown direction,” Alan stubbornly maintained his position.

 

“That theory has its merits,” Tom mused, “but I think Miranda would hardly act so rudely towards Simon.”

 

“Listen, I think she...”

 

Simon stopped listening to his friends. The very reminder of Miranda upset him, and now his friends were making such unpleasant guesses, though the one Simon most wanted to believe was Nate's.

 

The gym class ended with the coach's monotone whistle, but the friends still continued to build their theories about Miranda's disappearance. Their absorbed discussion was interrupted by the bell for history, where Mr. Harrington announced a group project. Each team had to create a diorama recreating an important historical event. Simon's friends were assigned the topic of the construction of the Hoover Dam—a massive engineering project from the Great Depression era.

 

After brief arguments about who would be responsible for what, the guys decided to split up right after school. Nate and Alan would go to the construction store for model materials, while Simon and Tom would go to the city library to gather historical facts and photos. The rest of the school day passed at its usual pace—literature, English, chemistry—nothing remarkable happened.

 

When the final bell rang, the friends left the school building with the crowd of other teenagers. The sun was already setting in the west, painting the brick walls of the school in warm golden tones. The boys retrieved their bikes from the racks near the main entrance, quickly said goodbye, and went their separate ways.

 

Simon and Tom cycled leisurely towards the edge of the city, where the city library building was hidden among old houses. The two-story structure of red brick with high arched windows looked like a small fortress of knowledge. Ivy intertwined the walls, giving the building a fairy-tale-like, slightly abandoned appearance, and the massive oak doors with wrought-iron handles creaked upon entry.

 

Inside, the library greeted them with subdued light and the smell of old paper mixed with the aroma of lemon oil for furniture polish. Tall, dark-wood bookshelves stretched to the ceiling, creating a labyrinth of narrow aisles. The soft carpet muffled footsteps, and an antique grandfather clock ticked in the far corner. At a round table near the entrance sat Mrs. Paterson—an elderly librarian with gray hair pulled into a neat bun and glasses on a chain.

 

After consulting with Mrs. Paterson, who enthusiastically showed them the relevant section and recommended several particularly valuable editions, the friends gathered a stack of books about the construction of the Hoover Dam. They settled at a table far in the corner by the window. Simon delved into reading, methodically writing down important facts and dates in his worn notebook.

 

About an hour passed when Tom suddenly put down his pen and lifted his head from his book. He studied his friend's profile for a while, clearly gathering his courage, and then cautiously asked:

 

“Do you want to talk about Miranda?”

 

Simon's pen froze mid-sentence. He did not look up, as if Tom's words required time to reach him.

 

“No, thank you. I don't want to talk about it, and I don't see the point. I calmed down about it a long time ago. Of course, at first, it was hard for me to get used to the fact that Miranda stopped coming to our evening meetings by the stone fence. I kept waiting for her and calling her, but, as you know, it didn't help. I'm still worried about my friend, but there's nothing I can do in this situation—except hope that she is okay. Because of this, anxious thoughts and doubts often come to me, so I generally try not to think about it.”

 

Tom looked at him, his eyebrows slightly raised. His gaze showed either confusion or doubt. He turned a page, as if giving Simon a moment, then cautiously asked:

 

“Did you try climbing over the stone fence?”

 

Simon slowly put down his book. His friend’s question forced him to think. Indeed. After a long pause, he quietly replied:

 

“No.”

 

The short word hung in the air between them, full of unexpected possibilities and missed chances. The friends exchanged glances, but said nothing more.

 

They continued their work in silence, broken only by the rustling of turning pages and the squeaking of chairs. When it finally got dark, the boys gathered their notes, neatly stacked the books, and took them to Mrs. Paterson. After thanking the librarian for her help, they went outside.

 

At the library entrance, the friends said goodbye—Tom clapped Simon on the shoulder, wished him luck, and rode home. Simon stood for a while, looking at the library’s lit windows, and then he, too, got on his bike and slowly rolled down the deserted streets, pondering Tom’s words.

 

Shaking off the nagging thoughts, Simon pedaled harder. The wind ruffled his hair, carrying the remnants of anxiety somewhere into the gray sky above the city.

 

First on his list, Simon had to stop by the electronic parts store on Main Street. The bell above the door greeted him with a plaintive squeak, and the clerk, with greasy fingers and an indifferent look, reluctantly dug the necessary pressure rollers for the VCR out of the depths of the warehouse. Fifteen bucks—expensive, but without them, the VCR was dead weight.

 

The next stop was Kaz’s bakery. Even a block away, the air began to smell like home: yeast dough, vanilla, and something else warm and cozy. Simon locked his bike to a lamppost, checking the lock twice—people liked taking wheels in this neighborhood.

 

Pushing open the bakery door, he entered a cloud of aromas. Cinnamon tickled his nostrils, and fresh bread beckoned with its golden crust from behind the glass display.

 

Behind the counter stood the owner himself—Kaz, an African-American man in his mid-thirties, whose shoulders seemed too wide for the cramped space. His dark skin gleamed from the heat of the ovens, and his white T-shirt had long since turned into a map of his workday: flour stains on his chest, dough splatters on the sleeves, a streak of berry jam on his stomach. Powerful hands, marked with thin scars from knives and burns from the ovens, rested on the countertop, fingers drumming a nervous beat.

 

On the other side of the counter stood a figure familiar to Simon, it was Linda. A girl of about seventeen, with messy blonde hair, a worn denim jacket one size too big, and sneakers that had seen better days. Her shoulders were pulled back, but her hands were trembling.

 

The jingle of the bell above the door was drowned out by the tense silence. Neither Kaz nor Linda even turned around.

 

“I’m sorry, Linda,” Kaz’s voice was soft but firm. “I understand how hard it is for you at the shelter. Hell, I know what it's like when the wind whistles in your pocket. But I can't give you the buns on credit.”

 

He ran his palm across his face, leaving a white streak of flour on his cheek.

 

“It's not because I'm greedy. Lord knows, I’d give my last if I could. It's just...” He gestured toward the old scales, the peeling paint on the walls, the window taped up with masking tape. “See all this? Every month I wonder if I'll have enough money to last until the next. I had a bigger, better bakery in Detroit. I used to give credit there too, thought—people are good, they’ll pay it back. They didn’t. I had to close down. Don't get me wrong, I know you’re a very decent person and always pay your debts, but I need the money now.”

 

Linda nodded, pressing her lips together. Something painful flashed in her eyes.

 

“I understand, Kaz. Have a good evening.”

 

“You too, Linda.”

 

Linda turned toward the exit and almost bumped into Simon. Their eyes met for a second, but she quickly looked away and headed for the door.

 

Simon watched her through the fogged-up glass, then approached the counter. Kaz was diligently wiping the already clean countertop, clearly needing something to do with his hands.

 

“What happened?” Simon asked, even though he had heard everything.

 

Kaz tucked the rag into the pocket of his checkered apron.

 

“Nothing special, really. She wanted cinnamon buns on credit. I had to refuse.” He shrugged, but there was bitterness in his voice. “You know yourself, I’m barely making ends meet.”

 

“Seriously?” Simon raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I thought business was booming. You're the only bakery in town, and you bake magically.”

 

Kaz chuckled, but without humor.

 

“That’s true, no competition. But the landlord raises the price every six months, groceries are getting more expensive, and the number of customers isn't growing. I’ve tried everything to attract people—discounts, promotions.” He glanced around his small empire of flour and sugar. “Work has literally become my home. I sleep on a cot in the back room because I can’t afford an apartment.”

 

“Wow... I didn't know things were that serious.”

 

“It’s nothing,” Kaz straightened up, shaking off his gloomy mood like flour from his apron. “I’ll manage somehow. It’s not the first time.” He slapped his hands on the counter. “Alright, enough complaining. You didn't come for my woes, you came for fresh baking. The usual? Biscuit toast and a loaf?”

 

“Yes, please.”

 

“Then that’ll be fifteen dollars and fifty cents.”

 

While Kaz was assembling the order, Simon examined the display case. The cinnamon buns lay in the corner, appealingly dusted with powdered sugar and exuding a mind-blowing aroma.

 

When Kaz returned with the bag, Simon nodded toward the buns:

 

“And three cinnamon buns, please.”

 

Kaz paused, the bag freezing in his hands. His gaze became understanding, almost grateful. He silently added the buns to the order.

 

“Plus six dollars,” he said quietly.

 

Simon handed over a crumpled twenty-dollar bill, received his change, took the paper bag with the pastries, and headed for the exit without saying a word.

 

 

Leaving the bakery, Simon unlocked his bike, carefully placed the bag with the toast and loaf into his worn leather satchel, and kept the cinnamon buns in his hand. Pushing off the sidewalk, he slowly cycled down the street. Linda couldn't have gone far—all the roads in this area led to the main intersection. And sure enough, at the traffic light on the corner of Main Street, stood a thin girl, clutching the straps of an old backpack as if afraid they would be ripped from her hands. The red light was blinking, reflecting in the puddles from the morning rain.

 

“Hey! Linda!” he called out, slowing down beside her.

 

She turned around, and her face instantly changed—surprise was replaced by wariness. Linda instinctively stepped back half a step, as if preparing to flee.

 

“These are for you,” he held out the bag of buns, trying to sound as casual as possible.

 

Linda stared at the bag as if it might explode. Then she slowly raised her eyes to Simon. She was silent for a few seconds, then lowered her gaze.

 

“I... I can’t take them.”

 

Simon blinked, genuinely confused.

 

“Why?” he asked, leaning toward her from his bike.

 

“I don’t want to live on charity,” she replied sharply, crossing her arms over her chest.

 

Simon shook his head, puzzled by her logic.

 

“How is this charity, Linda? It’s just ordinary human help.”

 

“To you, yes,” Linda lifted her chin, bitterness in her voice. “But to me, it’s another reminder that I can’t afford even such a small thing. That’s why I don’t want to live on handouts.”

 

The traffic light turned green, but neither of them moved. People walked around them, some throwing curious glances, but Simon paid no attention. He was thinking about Linda’s words.

 

“But charity and help are two different things,” he began slowly. “A handout is when someone gives you something and explicitly tells you that you depend on them. That if it weren’t for them, you wouldn’t be able to do anything yourself. And you still owe them something in return for their ‘help.’ But help is when someone simply assists you, gives you something, and asks for nothing in return. I just want to give you these buns because you wanted them. And you also helped me put the chain back on my bike, so I just want to thank you.”

 

The traffic light turned green again. Pedestrians streamed across the road, flowing around their standing figures.

 

Linda remained silent, looking at the bag in his hands.

 

“You remember the chain?” she asked quietly.

 

“Of course, I remember. I was struggling with it on the roadside for half an hour, and you just walked up and fixed everything in a minute,” Simon smiled. “And you didn't lecture me about how to take care of my bike.”

 

The corners of Linda's lips twitched—an almost imperceptible smile.

 

“I'm just... not used to anyone remembering things,” she admitted, still looking at the bag. — “And I’m not used to forgetting good deeds,” Simon replied. “You know, when people do something good for each other without expecting anything, the world gets a little better. Don't you think so?” Linda looked up and met his eyes. — “I just... I'm afraid to get used to it,” she whispered. “What if one day that help isn't there?” — “Then,” Simon said slowly, “you’re right—you have to rely on yourself. But you know, even the most independent people sometimes need support. And it’s okay not to be afraid to accept it. Especially if a person is used to relying on themselves, they won’t become dependent on outside help.” The traffic light turned green for the third time. Linda looked at Simon for a few more seconds, and then slowly reached out and took the bag. — “Thank you,” she said so quietly that he barely heard her. — “You’re welcome,” Simon smiled. Linda remained silent. Simon pushed off, rode across the road, and waved to her as he continued his journey home.

 

Simon had met Linda a year ago, on one of those days when everything goes wrong. Returning from school, he was pedaling furiously, late for family dinner, when the bike chain suddenly slipped off the sprocket. The bicycle stopped abruptly, and Simon nearly flew over the handlebars.

 

“Damn it,” he cursed, getting off the bike and examining the oil-stained chain.

 

“Problems?” he heard an unfamiliar voice behind him.

 

Turning around, Simon saw a girl with messy blonde hair and a guarded look. She wore a worn denim jacket and a backpack that had seen better days.

 

“The chain came off,” he explained, pointing to the bike. “And my hands will get covered in grease.”

 

Without a word, the girl crouched down next to the bike, deftly hooked the chain, and began carefully placing it back in position. Her movements were confident and practiced. Soon the chain was back where it belonged.

 

— “Do you know about bikes?” Simon was surprised. — “A little,” she answered shortly, without looking up. “I learned in the shelter—you have to fix everything yourself there.”

 

Word by word, they started talking. Or rather, Simon did most of the talking—Linda answered monosyllabically, as if every word cost her effort. He only learned that she had recently been transferred from a shelter in a neighboring city due to overcrowding, and that she often got into fights with the other kids.

 

— “They provoked me,” she said harshly, when Simon cautiously asked about it. “I just didn't let myself be pushed around.”

 

After that incident, they saw each other occasionally—at school, in the store, on the city streets. They exchanged a couple of words, no more. Each of their meetings was accompanied by a strange tension. It wasn't unpleasant or uncomfortable—just baffling. That's why they never lingered near each other for long. Simon couldn't understand this phenomenon, and he didn't want to ask others.

 

Simon continued to pedal hard on his bicycle, and soon the smooth city asphalt gradually gave way to the packed sand of the country road. The bicycle wheels rustled over the small stones, kicking up a cloud of dust. To the right, stretched a massive wall of roughly hewn boulders held together by concrete. The gray blocks, covered in moss and cracks from time, rose a good two meters high and went just as far underground.

 

This wall was built by the city's founders more than a century ago to protect against wild animals that lived in the dense forest beyond the fence. It encircled the forest massif with a massive stone ring that kept no one in and no one out. At least, that's what the adults said.

 

Simon knew every stone of that wall; he grew up next to it, played in its shadow, and it was through it that he met Miranda.

 

Reaching his house—a small two-story building with peeling blue paint on the shutters—Simon was about to put his bike in the garage, but something stopped him. An invisible force seemed to pull him toward the fence.

 

Putting his bike on the kickstand, he walked up to the familiar section of the stone wall and looked at its top. It was here, eight years ago, that he heard a voice from the other side of the wall.

 

— “Miranda, are you there?” he asked hopefully, but there was no answer.

 

Only the wind rustled the dry leaves, and somewhere in the distance, a crow cawed. Simon continued to stand, peering at the top of the wall, pondering Tom's words. The idea of climbing over this massive barrier would never have occurred to Simon. Although the desire to see his interlocutor, even for a moment, was always with him, he still hoped for a miracle. Maybe she would appear now?

 

But the miracle did not happen. Just as it hadn't happened for five months.

 

It was hard for Simon to believe that eight years of friendship could end so abruptly. That the girl who knew all his secrets, who listened to his problems and shared hers, had simply... disappeared. As if she had never existed.

 

After standing for a little longer in vain hope, Simon sighed in annoyance and went to push his bike into the garage.

 

The house greeted him with its usual silence and the smell of his mother’s perfume. Simon took off his shoes in the hallway, carefully placing them on the rubber mat, hung his down vest on the hook, and walked into the kitchen.

 

The kitchen was the heart of the house—small, with a wooden table in the middle and an antique sideboard inherited from his grandmother. Sunlight filtered through the curtains with a small floral pattern, painting everything in warm golden tones.

 

Simon took the bag of bread from his satchel and carefully placed the loaf and biscuit into the breadbox. Then he opened the refrigerator, took out the chicken wrapped in paper, and put it in the sink to thaw.

 

Taking his satchel, he went up the creaky wooden stairs to the second floor and headed to his room.

 

Entering his room, he took the satchel off his shoulder and pulled out a small packet containing the new pressure rollers.

 

He carefully placed the satchel by the bed and settled down at his desk. Flicking the switch on the desk lamp, a yellow light illuminated the work surface, highlighting the laid-out tools: a set of screwdrivers of different sizes, tweezers, a small flashlight, and a tray with tiny screws.

 

The VCR, disassembled the day before, lay before him like a patient on an operating table.

 

The old pressure rollers were in a pitiful state: the rubber was cracked, and the surface was rough from years of use. Simon carefully unscrewed their tiny fasteners, trying not to lose the screws the size of a grain of rice. Every movement required patience and precision—one clumsy slip, and he would have to collect the scattered parts across the room.

 

The new rollers installed with pleasant ease. They were perfectly smooth, black, and shiny. Simon tightened the fasteners, checked that the rollers spun freely, and then methodically inspected all the wires, transistors, and circuit boards. Every contact, every connection—everything had to be impeccable.

 

Finally, the moment of truth. Simon plugged the recorder into the wall socket and took the first cassette he could find from the shelf.

 

Inserting the cassette, he held it in place with his hand, then pressed the play button.

 

The recorder purred, the mechanisms coming to life with a quiet hum. The pressure rollers smoothly pressed the magnetic tape, and the transport mechanism began pulling it through at the correct speed. The sound of its operation was steady, without scraping or jerking—music to any mechanic's ears.

 

“Beautiful,” Simon whispered, watching the flawlessly working repaired device.

 

Pressing the stop button, he carefully extracted the cassette, unplugged the recorder, and screwed the cover back into place. The final touches—turning off the lamp and putting the tools back into their boxes, each in its designated spot.

 

Taking the repaired VCR, Simon cautiously descended to the first floor, to the living room.

 

Simon connected the recorder to the television, checking all the connections twice: the RCA cables, the antenna input. Only one final, decisive test remained.

 

Turning on the TV and the VCR, he grabbed the first cassette from the shelf. Night of the Twelve Lanterns—an excellent choice for checking image and sound quality.

 

The cassette slid into the slot with a satisfying click. Simon pressed "Play" and held his breath.

 

Familiar frames flashed on the TV screen—the studio logo, then the first scenes of the movie. The image was clear, without lines or interference, and the sound was crisp. The VCR worked flawlessly.

 

Simon couldn't suppress a faint smile at his work.

 

He let the movie play for another minute, enjoying the result of his effort, then stopped playback, ejected the cassette, and turned off the equipment.

 

The job was done. One more small victory over broken things, one more mechanism brought back to life by his hands. Satisfied with himself, Simon went up to his room, already planning what he would do next. Although he knew what to do next—homework, which wouldn't disappear by itself. Math, chemistry, English, and down the list.

 

Taking the textbooks from his satchel and the bookshelf, where they sat alongside technical manuals and radio-electronics magazines, Simon settled down at his desk.

 

While working on a chemistry problem and calculating molar masses, Simon kept glancing at his brainchild—a homemade telephone proudly sitting on the edge of the desk. The device looked like a Frankenstein of the electronics world: the casing from an old home phone found at the city dump, but the internal components were entirely his creation. Instead of a regular phone line, the device worked via radio communication—Simon simply couldn't resist the temptation to turn found junk into something completely new.

 

The first model had one major drawback: all conversations were transmitted over an open airwave, like a radio play for anyone who cared to listen. Any ham radio enthusiast with a receiver who accidentally tuned into their frequency could enjoy teenage secrets and weekend plans.

 

So Simon improved the system. Three weeks of trial and error, three burned microchips, and one nearly exploding induction coil later—the system gained protection, a primitive but effective analog defense: a scrambling circuit. The principle was elegantly simple: a special circuit flipped the voice's sound frequencies upside down—low became high, and high became low. Human speech turned into an incomprehensible electronic chirping and gurgling. On the receiving end, an identical circuit performed the reverse conversion, restoring speech in all its glory.

 

He had built such personal radio phones for all his friends. Each device was tuned to an individual frequency, and to call a specific person, one simply had to press the corresponding button with their initials. The highlight of the system was the color indicators that let him know who was calling without picking up—a row of small lights along the side panel of the phone. Yellow meant Tom, Red meant Alan, Orange meant Nate, and Pink meant Miranda. If a signal came in from an unknown frequency, a regular white light would illuminate on the opposite side of the device, warning of an uninvited guest on the air, but that light had never come on.

 

Simon tried to focus on the formulas, but his thoughts persistently drifted to the pink light, which had been silent for three days. Unable to endure it any longer, he put down his pen, pulled the phone closer, and, lifting the receiver, pressed the button with the initials "M.R."

 

Familiar crackling first came from the speaker—the system tuning into the frequency—followed by steady ringing, echoing into the emptiness of the airwave. Simon sat, nervously drumming his fingers on the desk, counting the rings. One, two, five, ten... But no one picked up. Soon, the automatic system disconnected the call, leaving only silence and a faint hiss of static interference.

 

Simon slowly replaced the receiver, nervously scratching his chin—a habit that betrayed his anxiety.

 

“Where could you have gone?” he murmured quietly, addressing the silent phone.

 

After sitting in thought for a moment, he pushed the device to the edge of the desk and tried to get back to his homework. But the numbers and formulas swam before his eyes, blurring into a meaningless mess of symbols.

 

Finally finishing his homework more through sheer willpower than attention, Simon neatly stacked the textbooks into his satchel and wearily stretched out on the bed. The same question obsessively spun in his head: "Where did Miranda go?" And right behind it, like a shadow, crept another thought: "What if I climbed over the fence? Maybe only there will I find the answers to all my questions?"

 

This idea had been haunting Simon even before Thomas voiced it aloud. For a long time, he had been stopped by the local legend of the "grave claws"—a scare story used to frighten all the children in the neighborhood. But Miranda had dispelled those foolish superstitions, saying that she hadn't encountered anyone behind the fence except for birds and small rodents. Her words had then sounded like liberation from childhood nightmares.

 

But even if he decided to take that step, doing it alone would be reckless. Such an undertaking required the support of friends, careful planning, and perhaps a touch of that teenage recklessness that turns an ordinary day into an adventure.

 

Simon's gaze fell on the old wall clock opposite the bed—a relic from his grandfather’s time that announced the hour with a solemn chime. The hands showed twenty minutes to eight. His parents would be home from work soon, tired and hungry. It was time to go down to the kitchen and conjure up dinner—a small household chore that brought him pleasure. After all, cooking was just like building things, only with different tools and materials.

 

Going down to the kitchen, Simon flipped the switch, and a warm yellow light flooded the familiar space. Opening the refrigerator, he thoughtfully surveyed the contents of the shelves, mentally sorting through options. “Maybe an omelet with vegetables?” he thought, but immediately dismissed the idea. They had eaten something similar that morning. “Then maybe heat up Mom's soup?” Not a bad option, but he wanted something special.

 

His eyes caught the packet of minced meat on the bottom shelf—the one his mother hadn't gotten around to using. After a little deliberation, Simon decided to make spaghetti with meatballs.

 

“Spaghetti with meatballs,” he decided aloud, already picturing his parents' satisfied faces.

 

Putting on his mother's brightly colored apron, which was clearly too big for him, Simon got to work. First, he took a small pot and a medium-sized frying pan. He poured water into the pot and set it on the stove to boil. He poured a little sunflower oil into the frying pan and left it on the turned-off burner for now.

 

From the freezer, he extracted a bag of grated carrots—his mother's prep work—and took a small onion from the vegetable drawer. After peeling and finely dicing the onion, Simon turned the burner on high and began rolling the minced meat into neat meatballs. He gently placed them in the hot frying pan and began to brown them. The meatballs hissed as they hit the hot oil, filling the kitchen with an appetizing aroma. Simon browned them until they had a nice crust, then added the onion and carrots. The vegetables quickly released their juice, mixing with the meat into an aromatic base. Two tablespoons of flour, a quick stir, a little water and ketchup—and the sauce began to thicken.

 

Turning the heat down to minimum and covering the pan with a lid, Simon left the meatballs to simmer. Just at that moment, the water in the pot boiled, and he dropped the spaghetti in, making sure to stir them during the first few minutes.

 

While everything was cooking, Simon set about setting the table. The plates went into the microwave to warm up—warm dishes would keep the food hot longer. Forks and napkins took their places on the table. The table was ready.

 

Returning to the stove, Simon realized he had forgotten something. Quickly surveying his work area, he realized—the kettle! Hastily correcting the oversight, he added salt to the pot of pasta and turned off the burners under both the frying pan and the pot.

 

Taking the colander from the cupboard above the sink, Simon carefully drained the water from the cooked spaghetti. Steam rose in thick plumes, and the pasta looked perfect—neither overcooked nor hard. Returning it to the now-washed pot, he added a drop of sunflower oil.

 

Taking the warm plates from the microwave, he plated the pasta beautifully with the fragrant meatballs and placed them on the table. Just at that moment, the kettle boiled, and Simon brewed one strong cup of tea. He would later dilute it with boiling water when pouring it into other mugs—otherwise, no one would sleep that night with such strength.

 

Placing the tea on the table along with the sugar and salt, Simon looked over his work with satisfaction. Now, all that remained was to wait for his parents, who were due to arrive any minute.

 

Everything was ready. Taking off his mother's apron and carefully hanging it back on the hook near the refrigerator, Simon decided to taste his creation. He sat down at the table and twirled the first portion of spaghetti onto his fork.

 

The pasta was perfectly cooked—it was easy to chew and didn't stick together, although it was a little light on salt. The meatballs were juicy and tender, easy to chew, and the sauce completed the picture perfectly—not too thick, but not watery, just right. Simon quickly emptied his plate, washing down the dinner with strong tea.

 

Washing his dishes, he sat down to wait for his parents. Soon, the familiar muffled hum of their old Ford’s engine was heard outside the window. Simon got up from the table and headed toward the front door.

 

Stepping out onto the porch to meet his parents, he immediately stumbled over something small and hard. Bending down, Simon distinguished a small box taped with electrical tape in the dim light—clearly a package, but it was hard to read the writing on it in the evening darkness.

 

The Ford’s engine died, and his parents got out of the car, heading toward the house. Taking the mysterious package in his hands, Simon approached the edge of the porch, ready to greet them.

 

“Hi, Dad! Hi, Mom!” Simon greeted them happily.

 

“Hello to you too, son,” his father replied, taking off his jacket.

 

“Hello, dear,” his mother smiled, inhaling the aromas from the kitchen. “Something smells delicious!”

 

“I made you spaghetti with meatballs and brewed some tea,” Simon announced proudly.

 

“Wow, thank you so much!” his mother beamed. “Did you dilute the tea, though? I don't want to be up all night.”

 

“Yes, I did. And also, Mom, I took the chicken out of the freezer.”

 

“Oh, thank you, dear. That means we’ll have cutlets tomorrow.”

 

The whole family went inside, and his father turned the key in the lock twice. His parents took off their shoes in the entryway, hung their jackets on the hooks, and headed to the kitchen, while Simon followed them, glancing with interest at the box in his hands.

 

Settling down at the table, his parents began their dinner, and Simon sat across from them, continuing to examine the package.

 

“Mmm, very tasty,” his father said, twirling spaghetti onto his fork. “Though, the pasta could use a little more salt.”

 

“I don’t know, the salt is just right for me,” his mother countered. “Simmy, did you make the meatballs with the minced meat from the bottom shelf?”

 

“Yes, Mom, why?”

 

“No reason, I'm just glad it finally got used. I haven't been able to get around to it for two days now.”

 

“By the way, son, how was your day?” his father asked, sipping his tea.

 

“Normal, nothing special happened today... Oh! I completely forgot—I fixed the VCR!”

 

“No kidding!” his father exclaimed with excitement. “What was wrong with it in the end?”

 

“Nothing critical. The sensor was just dusty, all the oil on the bearings wore out, and the pressure rollers were worn out and weren't pressing the magnetic tape against the head properly. So, I had to buy new ones, but they weren't expensive. I checked—the recorder is working fine.”

 

“Excellent!” Dad rubbed his hands contentedly. “Let’s watch the movie I rented recently this weekend. Night of the Twelve Lanterns. They told me it’s a great adventure story.”

 

“I’m in,” his mother said, sipping her tea. “What do you think, Simmy?” she asked her son.

 

Simon was at that moment carefully examining the box in his hands, trying to make out the sender's name in the dim light of the kitchen lamp. When he finally read who the package was from, he froze, and then slowly placed the box on the edge of the table.

 

“I... don’t mind, if nothing comes up,” he answered his mother, nervously drumming his fingers on the tabletop.

 

His father immediately noticed his distress.

 

“Simon, what is that box?” he asked, nodding toward the package.

 

“It’s... a package. I found it on our porch when I went out to meet you.”

 

“And who is it from?” his father inquired.

 

Simon looked at the box, gathering his thoughts and strength.

 

“It’s... it’s from Miranda.”

 

His father raised his eyebrows in surprise:

 

“No way! From your friend who disappeared out of the blue three months ago?”

 

“Five months ago,” Simon corrected quietly.

 

 

“Yes, five months ago, sorry. And what's in it?”

 

 

“I don't know yet, I haven't had time to open it.”

 

 

“Well, open it now, and we’ll all find out together!” his mother suggested.

 

 

“No, Jay, that's his private business,” his father gently stopped her.

 

 

“Let him go to his room and open it there, if you, of course, want to be alone, Simon.”

 

 

“Yes, f-fine, I... I’ll go to my room,” Simon mumbled, his voice trembling slightly with excitement.

 

 

“Alright, go on, we won't hold you up.”

 

 

“Yes, Simmy, go,” his mother added understandingly.

 

Simon took the box from the table and, trying not to run but barely holding back his impatience, went up to his room. Flicking the switch on his desk lamp, he sat down at his working table and examined the entire box again, unwilling to miss any detail. The address was written in Miranda’s familiar handwriting, and her careless signature adorned the corner.

 

Placing the package on the table, Simon reached for the tool drawer on the shelf to his right and took out a utility knife. Carefully slicing the electrical tape, he opened the box.

 

Inside lay an envelope and something resembling a gold-colored bracelet. Simon carefully laid out all the contents of the package onto the table, then picked up the envelope and cautiously opened it.

 

This was it, the moment of truth. He would finally find out where Miranda had disappeared to.