Forgotten children

 I'm going to Pskov to pick up my car from customs. It's a sunny summer day, not a cloud in the sky, and there's food, drinks, and a sleeping bag in the trunk. You may have to spend the night on the road. I stop for a smoke break, sleep for about thirty minutes, have sandwiches, and get back behind the wheel. Stable at 150 km/h. A smooth, straight highway.

I arrived at the customs office in the evening. Paperwork. Boring faces. A photocopier. Payment of the fee. Drivers of huge trucks. Smoke breaks, queues, waiting hours. Only after midnight – on the way back. The road is almost clear at this time. Oncoming drivers politely switch the high beam to the low beam. Suddenly, the headlights pick out a grandfather sitting on the side of the road with buckets, apparently selling something. I stop the car and get out. There's nothing in the buckets. Grandfather sits on a stool, giggles and looks somewhere into the forest, does not answer questions. I throw twenty rubles in a bucket, get behind the wheel, and drive on.

Fatigue affects, sleep takes its toll, I know that in this case it is impossible to continue moving. After a couple of kilometers, I carefully turn off the highway. A dirt road leads to a strange wasteland. There is a forest around the edges, and the playground is covered with asphalt with deep potholes. I park the car in the center, lay out the seats, spread out the sleeping bag. There's silence all around. For some reason, I don't want to turn off the lights in the car. I finish my cigarette, lie down, turn off the lamp and the headlights. I toss and turn for a few minutes, but then I fall into oblivion, a dream as dark as the forest around me.

I wake up to the sound of the car rocking and laughter. Children's laughter, cheerful and sinister at the same time. The windows had fogged up by then, and nothing was visible from the inside. I lean against the window, trying to see something. Suddenly, a child's palm hits the glass from the opposite side and slides down, leaving a clean trail behind it. I screamed with all my might and, without stopping shouting, I got behind the wheel. I frantically search for my keys, slap my pockets, but I'm nowhere to be found. The laughter doesn't stop, the car is rocking harder and harder, and the smell of burning has started to come from somewhere. It turns out that the key was in the ignition. I turn the key. The engine roars. I automatically turn on the headlights. There are children standing in front of the hood in a tight row. There are about fifteen of them. They were dressed in old, still Soviet-style, official pajamas. There are black spots on their faces and clothes. I'm putting it in reverse gear. I'm flying over potholes, engine whining. The children's figures are moving away, one of them waved her hand.

I hit the highway, gas up to the stop, rushing like crazy. It's only now that I'm noticing that it's raining heavily. A traffic police post appeared ahead. I drive up to him, almost crash into the wall, jump out of the car, rush to the surprised guard, confusedly tell him what happened. He laughs and doesn't believe it. Conducts an alcohol test. Then he takes me to his place, offers to rest. He pours tea, lights a cigarette, and asks where it happened. I'm telling you. He listens attentively, then darkens, exchanging glances with his partner. Then they tell me a story that there was a boarding school in that place, and in the late eighties there was a fire and it burned down, almost all the students died. Despite this, the police assure me that I just had a nightmare. I agree. Here, in the warmth, in the company of armed traffic cops, everything really seems like a dream. After a while, I thank them, pack up, and go out to the car. On the hood, almost already washed away by the rain, the prints of small children's hands stained with soot are visible.