Then, in the Guard, that comfort with the dark came in handy night after night when there were no fires, no lights, not even cigarettes for fear that the enemy could spot us. Some of the men I served with still sleep with a nightlight on, but I’ve never been able to do that.
At the door of the dormitory I flick the flashlight on again and point the beam at the floor. In the reflected light, in the last of the eight bunk beds, I can see Hazel curled up under an army-green blanket, her hair fanned out behind her.
I turn it off and run my hand over each bunk bed until I get to the one next to hers, where I strip and pull back the scratchy sheets, get in, and stare at the bottom of the bed above me even though I can’t see it.
A few feet to my left, Hazel shifts in her sleep. Then she shifts again, and sighs.
“That’s you, right?” she says.
“Reporting in,” I say.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she says, her voice quiet and dreamy in the big space.
Her bed creaks, and I hear her shift again, and then her hand’s on my shoulder.
“God, it’s dark,” she says. “I can’t see my hand in front of my face.”
I scoot over and she gets into bed next to me, gingerly feeling out where I am.
“Just for a minute,” she says. “Then I’ll get in my own bed.”
“You’re not afraid of the dark, are you?” I ask, rolling onto my side.
I put one hand on her belly, and she puts a hand over it. She’s wearing a t-shirt from one of the dressers down here, underwear, and nothing else.
“Not anymore,” she says. “When I was a kid, at my first-ever sleepover, my friend convinced me that all closets were portals to monster-world, and when it was dark, they’d slowly push the door open, come out, and eat me.”
A sleepover? I think.
I’ve seen them in movies, but I never spent the night at a friend’s house when I was a child.
“Not a very good friend,” I say.
“I think we were six,” she says. “And I got over it.”
“Americans really have sleepovers?” I ask.
Hazel laughs.
“What do you mean?” she says.
“You go to someone else’s house, eat pizza and watch movies, and then sleep there?”
“Yeah,” she says, sounding confused. “Well, not as adults, but we do it all the time as kids.”
She pauses.
“Why?”
“I always thought they were made up for movies, like pie-eating contests, or beer pong,” I admit. “I never attended a sleepover. I don’t think they happen here.”
Now she’s laughing even harder, her stomach shaking under my hand.
“You laugh at me too much,” I say, nuzzling my forehead into her hair.
It’s not true. Even though I’m always puzzled, I’m getting attached to the sound of her laugh, the way her eyes crinkle at the corners, and I’m always surprised at what she finds funny.
“I thought you’d been to the U.S. a couple of times,” she says.
“I have,” I say. “Everyone is too friendly, but the burgers are delicious and you’re very orderly drivers.”
“Pie-eating contests and beer pong are also both real,” she says.
I exhale into her hair.
“Really?”
“Really.”
“People make pies only to see who can eat them the fastest?” I ask.
I’ve never made a pie, but I understand it to be a time-intensive process.
“Yup,” says Hazel.
“And people also toss balls into cups full of beer and then drink them,” I say.
“Also yes,” says Hazel.
“Why not just drink the beer?”
She pauses for a long time.
“Because there’s an added element of fun, I guess,” she says. “It’s sort of competitive, and silly, but it also gets you drunk?”
“But you could just get drunk,” I point out.
“Sure, we could all sit around drinking vodka alone, stoically looking at pictures of our dead ancestors,” she says. “Or we could enjoy ourselves.”
“Now you’re making fun of me,” I say.
“You can be very serious sometimes,” she says.
I stroke her stomach with my thumb and think for a moment. I should be trying to get some sleep, but I’d rather lie here, talking to Hazel.
“Are cowboys real?” I ask.
She drums her fingers against mine.
“They used to be,” she says. “It’s a job that doesn’t really exist any more.”
“Prom?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says. “Think of it as a masquerade ball, without masks, for teenagers.”
She’s teasing me again.
“I’m not throwing the ball,” I say. “I didn’t even remember it was soon.”
“I didn’t think masquerade balls were real,” Hazel admits. “Especially the part where I have to actually wear a mask.”
“This is only the second that’s been held,” I say. “The first was last year. Before that, the last was probably more than a hundred years ago.”
“Why’d they start again?”
I sigh.
“Yelena,” I say. “She wanted it, so her father convinced mine that it would be symbolic of the return of the monarchy, remind the people of old times, inspire national pride, that sort of thing.”
“And you disagree.”
“I think the people would rather have their roads kept free of potholes,” I say into her hair.
Hazel wiggles, turning onto her side so that I’m spooning her, my arm tight around her chest.
“It’ll at least be something to tell people about,” she says. “I went to a real castle, met a real prince, went to a real masquerade ball. God, it sounds like Cinderella or something.”
“I don’t remember the Soviet bunker in Cinderella,” I say.
“She didn’t smoke pot on the roof either,” Hazel says. She sounds like she’s starting to drift to sleep, and I can feel my body finally giving up.
As small as this bed is, it’s warm and cozy with her against me, her body fitted perfectly to mine.
“In the original version, her stepsisters cut off their toes to fit the slipper and it filled with blood,” I say.
Hazel squeezes my hand in hers.
“Kostya, you say the weirdest shit,” she says.
“It didn’t work,” I say. “The prince still knew the right girl.”
There’s a long, long pause.
“Was it because she still had toes?” Hazel finally asks.
“You need toes to be a queen,” I say. I can feel sleep tugging at me, and I’m not sure I’m making much sense.
“I should get in the other bed so you can sleep,” Hazel says.
“Two more minutes,” I say, and pull her tighter against me.
I jerk awake when the phone rings. We’re still in the same position, and half my joints are creaky. My left arm is completely asleep, and Hazel kicks my shin as she wakes up.
It rings again.
“Is that the phone?” she asks.
I sit on the edge of the bed and find the flashlight on the floor, turn it on, and shine it at the ceiling so the light reflects.