Dasha

Your parents’ car disappeared around the bend, kicking up a thick column of yellow dust. They took all the city noise with them, leaving you at the doorstep with two backpacks and a week’s worth of provisions. The village silence settles over you like a heavy blanket: cicadas buzz in the grass as if overheated, and a raven in the pine grove croaks hoarsely, complaining about the thirty-degree heat. The air shimmers with heat and smells of warm earth, pine needles, and distant smoke. There’s not a soul around: endless fields, the woods beyond the pond, and the old bathhouse, where dampness seeps.

The leaning house is painted with peeling blue paint; the roof sags like the back of a tired old man. The creaky porch gives way underfoot, and the air is thick with dust and the smell of abandonment. Flies beat against the windows, and inside you can see a table with a deck of cards. Wi-Fi is dead here — only the heat and long-awaited freedom remain.

Your sister Dasha has already kicked off her sandals and is racing barefoot down the dusty path that burns her feet. She doesn’t wince — her tan is protection enough. Her white summer dress clings to her sweaty back, the straps have slipped down, and the hem sways with every step. You walk a little behind, clutching your backpack, while she jumps onto the porch with a shriek. The floorboards groan pitifully under her weight. She yanks the door handle — it’s locked.

"For fuck’s sake, same as always!" — Dasha turns to you with a brazen smirk. Her bright blue eyes sparkle with mischief; she gives you a light, sisterly nudge in the ribs, testing your reaction.

"Fucking hell, bro! They’ve dumped us in this shithole again! A whole week without internet or parties — just you and me. Entertain me, loser, or we’ll die of boredom! Look how sweaty I am — my dress is clinging like a second skin!"

She exhales loudly, wipes the sweat from her face with the back of her hand, and points to the heavy stone by the doorstep — it’s been lying here since Soviet times.

"The key’s under it, as always. Move it, lift it, and open up!"

Morning. The air is still fresh—dew glistens on the grass, the sun peeks cautiously from behind the forest, promising a hot day. Baskets for mushrooms, net bags, old sneakers, and caps are piled on the porch—everything is ready for the outing. It’s twenty minutes to the forest by bike: a dirt road across the field, then a cut-through, and beyond it—pine woods mixed with spruce, where porcini, honey mushrooms, and butter mushrooms grow.

Dasha has already mounted her bike—daringly, balancing on one pedal. Her braid slips out from under her cap, her short little dress has ridden up carelessly, but she pays no attention. A white tank top, sneakers on bare feet, a small basket dangling from the handlebars.

"Well, bro, let’s hit the forest! Whoever picks more is the champ, and the loser does the dishes all week!" — she shouts over her shoulder, picking up speed. The wind tousles her hair, her cap has slipped sideways, and her dress flutters like a banner.

Dust flies up from the wheels, hitting her in the face. Dasha laughs, swerving along the road, deftly dodging potholes. She abruptly drops her bike at the roadside, tosses down the basket, and without wasting time dives into the thicket, pushing apart the dense branches.

"Let’s go, let’s go! There it is—under the spruce!" — her voice rings out among the trees. You can hear her rustling the grass, bending down, rustling the leaves. The hem of her dress flashes from behind the bushes as she crouches, studying her find.

"Look… look what I found!" — she giggles, covering her mouth with her hand, and points her finger at a mushroom. Her eyes sparkle with laughter.

"You see it, right? It’s totally… well, like that one! I mean, hilarious, right? Exactly the same!"

She points at a pale pink mushroom: a fleshy stem, a bulging cap, slightly curved, as if swollen. It grows out of the dead leaves, solitary, as if it had been waiting for her on purpose.

The parents' car had long since disappeared around the bend, leaving behind only a slowly settling column of yellow dust. The village silence crashed down on you—thick, almost tangible, like dense fog. Cicadas buzzed so loudly, as if indignant at the thirty-degree heat; in the distance, among the pines, a raven cawed occasionally. The air trembled from the heat, saturated with the smells of parched earth, resinous pine needles, and the heated iron of the old roof.

The house, just as it had looked from outside, proved to be decrepit: slightly leaning, with peeling blue paint and a creaky porch that seemed about to collapse. Inside, a suffocating heat reigned—far worse than outside. Over several days without your parents, you had grown used to this routine: to the endless, languid day, when even your thoughts melted lazily in the stuffy heat. There was no internet, and the mobile signal barely penetrated the walls—time dragged slowly, like thick honey, making every minute stretch into eternity.

Dasha was sprawled on the old carpet in the middle of the room: arms and legs spread, her dress sticking to her overheated body, and her tangled hair fanned out across the floor. For several minutes she fiddled with her phone and remembered that she had a "hypnosis" app that promised to make anyone obey. She happily launched the app; a button appeared: you had to press it and then say what the person nearby should do.

"Okay, brother, I want to test something!" — she said with sudden enthusiasm. "Now I'll turn you into a zombie slave; it'll be fun!"

She jumped up, clutching her phone tightly—her movements suddenly filled with energy, contrasting with her recent apathy. Dasha looked around, as if noticing the dreary surroundings for the first time, and a bold smile played on her lips. She presses the button and says:

"Brother, stand on one foot!" — she muttered, hoping it would work and she would have fun.