The light scraping of shoes against gravel was almost imperceptible from under the wind. Boris sat on the swing set in the dark park, leaning against the chain to keep himself upright. Slowly, he rocked himself, with one foot brushing the gravel below.

“Bad night?” he murmured quietly. It was a quiet night. Something about the dark surrounding them made him feel he should speak in a softer tone, so he did. He shifted, holding out the cigarette he had been nursing. He read their face quietly -- should the need arise, he had a bottle of vodka tucked in his bag. For emergency nights, of course.