“I read quickly,” you said, slipping the book into the back pocket of your trousers.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said, feeling sadness wash over me. “You can keep it.”

You looked at me like I’d said something absurd. “What are you talking about? Of course I’ll give it back.” Then you put your hand on my shoulder again, just like you had done the second time we’d talked. And just like then, the knot at the bottom of my belly—home to both fear and desire—stirred like an incoming tide.

That last week did not, as it usually does, pass more quickly than all those before it. It crept to an end on all fours. All throughout the week, I wanted it to be over, wanted to be liberated from being around you in that state of uncertainty. I still avoided you, still never came to the river, even though it was hot and I longed to dip my feet in the coolness of the water. And yet I kept looking at you when I was sure our eyes wouldn’t meet, to see signs of any change in you. But you seemed the same. In the canteen you sat with the same group, and in the field you worked incessantly.

On our last evening the comrade leader made a speech, thanking us for our hard work. Then he ordered us down to the river. We walked in little groups, unsure what would happen, filled with excitement tinged with dread. But what we came upon were dozens of little boats flopping in the water. We got in, six to a boat, me with Karolina and Beata and the boys from my hut, and we rowed down the river, not toward our spot but in the other direction, where the forests began. We formed a line of boats with Belka at the head. We saw the sun set far behind the fields we’d so carefully emptied that month, and along a narrow arm of the river that snaked its way into the forest. Tall pine trees began surrounding us, fragrant, solemn, and seemingly infinite. It was cooler there, and utterly dark, and soon the only light came from the faint moon above us, barely visible in between the canyon of the treetops and the distant light of Belka’s torch in front. We heard the sound of light paws on the forest floor and the cracking of branches. An owl hooted.

Then our convoy stopped, and we all got out. There was a clearing in the forest. A fire was made that threw light on the ground and warmed us in the cool of the night. Sausages were pierced on twigs. Someone took out a guitar and began to sing, and bit by bit that wild dark place turned intimate. The night was full of noise and crackling and talk. We stood by the fire and drank beer, and the boys talked about their trip to Romania. Farther off, in between some trees, I saw you standing with your group: the girl with the dark hair and Maksio Karowski. I observed you for a moment, your profile in the dark, the way you smoked your cigarette, holding it between thumb and index finger. Then I forced myself to look away.