been days, and we’re still waiting for Garret O’Brien’s wife to respond. We don’t know why she’s not responding. Anton said he had a Plan B, a worm he embedded into one of her club’s website’s host servers. “Assuming she logs on, it’d take a while to scrap together enough for me to customize something. Maybe a privilege escalation hack, or something. It’d depend.”
He doesn’t know Luka doesn’t have that time, and the latter won’t tell him. All he does is keep telling me not to worry.
In the front of the bus, the teacher looks harried. She keeps shouting: “Can everyone keep quiet!” Little children are terrors. Are grown-ups better? If so, maybe it’s because of the sense of guilt they develop.
I thought of last night. Before I slept, I peeped into the girl’s room. Her curtains were closed and she was napping. I’d enjoyed watching her sleep, her dim figure stirring occasionally under the duvet. It felt peaceful. Her breathing was even and calming. Soothing, like a lullaby.
When I opened my eyes, I found myself beside Anna’s bed. I stood close enough to touch her, to smell her golden hair, which spilled across the pillow. A piano stood in one corner, its cover scuffed. The pillow cover was pink—no, blue, like mine. I had stroked her hair as she slept. Even in repose, her lips smiled at me. Anna, Anna, Anna, I shook her, half-pleading, half-savage, uncertain what I wanted to do with her.
Then, I woke up for real. I’ve never had dreams like this before. I touched my underwear and my hand smelled of salt and sea. No matter how I cleaned myself, I felt dry. Dirty.
When I realized what had happened, I’d written to the girl I spied on. It was rash, but I needed to tell someone how I felt. I’m sorry , I typed. She wasn’t around to read my confession, writ in large font across her screen, but she would when she next logged on. After another moment’s thought, I deleted the spy program. No more temptation, Andrei! Do the right thing!
The sense of guilt-driven righteousness hadn’t lasted long. When I left my apartment, I saw Grigory seated on the stairwell steps, blocking me. He held a nail clipper, a thick, hairy foot crossed over his knee. A broom rested on his side. “You,” he barked. “Your eyes are swollen.” His were bloodshot with malice. He pointed his nail clipper at me, as if it were a mind-probe. “I know what it is.” His lips blubbered. “It’s Nelya’s clogs keeping you up. That dry-teated bitch.”
For a moment, I wanted to kill him. I imagined the broomstick thrust deep inside his piggish maw. So, I fled.
What is happening to me?
Around me, on the bus, the children chant doggerel, chaining random words together. One group is leaning over the seat rails, the children taking turns to smack each other’s hand. It’s a game with rules I can’t follow. One boy’s hand is red and puffy, yet he smiles as though he’s winning. The teacher stands up and begs, “Please, please keep quiet!” and no one heeds her. The children revel in innocent mischief, an innocence I struggle to remember.
By the time I got to the warehouse, Anton and Luka were already arguing.
“You think I’m holding out? Is that what this is about?” Luka thundered. “Is it?”
“I want to know who this customer is and how much he’s paying. That was our deal. You said you’ll share your contacts with me. When will that day come?”
I sat in my corner. As I watched them, I wondered whether anyone ever grew up.
“You think it’s easy to get work? Do you know how many hacker groups there are? Russians. Estonians. Romanians. Do you know how many there are in Ramnicu Valcea alone willing to work for peanuts? Or the Indonesian monkeys and the Ukrainian gear-heads? Or groups like Anonymous that meddle for free?”
“They’re less skilled.”
“If you’re better, go! Take your serf-bots and petty peep-cams! Go clone credit cards! Find your own secrets to sell! If you end
He doesn’t know Luka doesn’t have that time, and the latter won’t tell him. All he does is keep telling me not to worry.
In the front of the bus, the teacher looks harried. She keeps shouting: “Can everyone keep quiet!” Little children are terrors. Are grown-ups better? If so, maybe it’s because of the sense of guilt they develop.
I thought of last night. Before I slept, I peeped into the girl’s room. Her curtains were closed and she was napping. I’d enjoyed watching her sleep, her dim figure stirring occasionally under the duvet. It felt peaceful. Her breathing was even and calming. Soothing, like a lullaby.
When I opened my eyes, I found myself beside Anna’s bed. I stood close enough to touch her, to smell her golden hair, which spilled across the pillow. A piano stood in one corner, its cover scuffed. The pillow cover was pink—no, blue, like mine. I had stroked her hair as she slept. Even in repose, her lips smiled at me. Anna, Anna, Anna, I shook her, half-pleading, half-savage, uncertain what I wanted to do with her.
Then, I woke up for real. I’ve never had dreams like this before. I touched my underwear and my hand smelled of salt and sea. No matter how I cleaned myself, I felt dry. Dirty.
When I realized what had happened, I’d written to the girl I spied on. It was rash, but I needed to tell someone how I felt. I’m sorry , I typed. She wasn’t around to read my confession, writ in large font across her screen, but she would when she next logged on. After another moment’s thought, I deleted the spy program. No more temptation, Andrei! Do the right thing!
The sense of guilt-driven righteousness hadn’t lasted long. When I left my apartment, I saw Grigory seated on the stairwell steps, blocking me. He held a nail clipper, a thick, hairy foot crossed over his knee. A broom rested on his side. “You,” he barked. “Your eyes are swollen.” His were bloodshot with malice. He pointed his nail clipper at me, as if it were a mind-probe. “I know what it is.” His lips blubbered. “It’s Nelya’s clogs keeping you up. That dry-teated bitch.”
For a moment, I wanted to kill him. I imagined the broomstick thrust deep inside his piggish maw. So, I fled.
What is happening to me?
Around me, on the bus, the children chant doggerel, chaining random words together. One group is leaning over the seat rails, the children taking turns to smack each other’s hand. It’s a game with rules I can’t follow. One boy’s hand is red and puffy, yet he smiles as though he’s winning. The teacher stands up and begs, “Please, please keep quiet!” and no one heeds her. The children revel in innocent mischief, an innocence I struggle to remember.
By the time I got to the warehouse, Anton and Luka were already arguing.
“You think I’m holding out? Is that what this is about?” Luka thundered. “Is it?”
“I want to know who this customer is and how much he’s paying. That was our deal. You said you’ll share your contacts with me. When will that day come?”
I sat in my corner. As I watched them, I wondered whether anyone ever grew up.
“You think it’s easy to get work? Do you know how many hacker groups there are? Russians. Estonians. Romanians. Do you know how many there are in Ramnicu Valcea alone willing to work for peanuts? Or the Indonesian monkeys and the Ukrainian gear-heads? Or groups like Anonymous that meddle for free?”
“They’re less skilled.”
“If you’re better, go! Take your serf-bots and petty peep-cams! Go clone credit cards! Find your own secrets to sell! If you end
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