Let’s Keep It RealBut the past has a way of finding its own. Life in that remote settlement moved slowly, like a lazy river. Boris got up at six every morning, brewed strong tea, and ate black bread with salt pork.
Then he walked to the sawmill. The work was simple and didn’t demand much from him physically. He just had to make sure local drunks didn’t steal lumber, that no fire broke out, and that strangers stayed off the property.
The pay was small, but enough for one old man. The house was warm enough, the garden fed him well, and he wanted little else. The neighbors got used to him quickly.
To them, old Pete was a decent, quiet man. He didn’t drink, didn’t argue, and didn’t stick his nose into other people’s business. He helped one neighbor fix a leaning fence and chopped a winter’s worth of firewood for a truck driver down the road.
He spoke little, mostly nodding instead. His old hands were still surprisingly strong. His face stayed calm, giving away very little.
In the first years of his self-imposed exile, Boris was always looking over his shoulder. He kept expecting someone to recognize him, for the past to catch up. But the years passed, and nothing happened.
The violent criminal world went on somewhere far away. Here there was only forest, a sawmill, and quiet. Slowly, Boris let go of some of the tension.
He began to believe that the worst of it was truly behind him. He hid his tattoos carefully, wearing long sleeves even in summer. He went to the public bathhouse only once a month, and always early, before anyone else arrived.
He washed quickly and never lingered. But one day a nosy neighbor named Kolya walked into the steam room and caught sight of the stars on Boris’s shoulders. He gave a low whistle.
“Pete, were you in prison a long time?” he asked.
“Long enough,” Boris said quietly. “A long time ago. Back when I was young and foolish.”
Kolya nodded and let it go. In a place that remote, half the men had done some time, so it didn’t shock anybody much. Boris spent most of his free time reading.
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