Camp

It happened in 1996. I was working part-time that summer as a counselor at a suburban children's camp. I'll tell you right away that our camp was next door to another one, long abandoned. It was completely overgrown with weeds, the small houses with broken windows almost hidden behind the vines. In some places, rectangular, unfenced pits gaped in the ground—former wells. On a small patch of ground in the center of "Chaika" (as the old camp was called), stood a plaster sculpture of Lenin, his arm outstretched in the familiar gesture.

One day, I happened to be walking along the small wire fence separating our two camps. Suddenly, I saw a familiar figure receding beyond it—Sashka Solodov, from my unit. Well, I thought, what a rascal! They said no one should go there...

"Sashka!" I shouted at him. "Stop!" 

And he paid no attention. He just kept walking. I jumped over the fence and followed him, shouting for him to stop. I quickened my pace, and he ran. I chased him deeper into the damned camp until he suddenly tripped and fell into a gaping rectangle in the ground—a well. I stopped abruptly, my heart pounding. I listened: not a sound came from the well. On wobbly legs, I approached the well and peered into the depths. The dark curtain of water was calm, without any ripples or ripples.

Terror slowly began to fill me. In a panic, I ran away to call for help. Just as I reached our camp, I bumped into Zinaida, the girl's counselor in our group. She was just as scared as I was.

 "Sa-a-a-a..." she mumbled. "Sasha Solodov was hit by a car..."

I gaped in surprise. It turned out the guy had gone outside the camp to buy something at the local store and hadn't been paying attention...

After this tragedy, the camp was closed for a while. It was later reopened, and I no longer worked in the camps.