I followed you, sprinting across a field, our clothes already darkened from the rain. We reached an oak and sat down by its trunk, protected under its roof of leaves. The rain continued to hammer the land, and the world smelled of water and earth. Then lightning struck before our eyes—a devil-fork of neon-white on the dark horizon. Thunder followed. We watched the spectacle in silence and awe, pushing our wet hair out of our faces, arms clasped around our knees. For a long time we sat like that, staring into the sky, until the rain became softer.

“Don’t you wish sometimes you were somewhere else?” The question came to me out of nowhere.

You turned toward me. “You mean the West, don’t you?”

I nodded, surprised by my candor. I’d never talked to anyone other than Karolina about this.

“No,” you said flatly. “Why?”

“I don’t know. I’ve always been curious. It seems like everything is better there. More beautiful. More free. Don’t you think?” I looked at you hopefully.

You shook your head and stared at some distant point on the horizon. “I should have known you’re one of them.”

“Them what?” I said, nervous suddenly, wondering whether I had made a big mistake.

You turned to me briskly. “Dreamers,” you said, your mouth widening into a teasing smile.

I let the word ring out, relieved and warmed by your smile so close to my face. “What’s wrong with dreaming about freedom?” I said.

“Freedom?” you huffed, and smiled, as if you’d had the same conversation many times before. “Having oranges and bananas every month of the year—is that freedom to you?” Your smile was gone.

“There is freedom in having what you want,” I said carefully, “in choosing for yourself.”

Your eyes narrowed. “And do you think that doesn’t come with a price? You think these people in the West don’t spend their lives working like machines, earning just so they can spend?”

“I don’t mind hard work. As long as you get something for it.”

“It always seems better somewhere else,” you said, ignoring my comment. “There are so many chances here. Look at me”—you seemed to blush a bit here, lowered your eyes for a moment. “I come from a poor family. And I’m the first one to get a proper education. They even gave me extra points in my entrance exams because we’re working class. And now I’ll work for the government. This is freedom. I could have never had that under capitalism. The Party cares about us. When my mother got sick”—you swallowed, your voice becoming smaller—“they sent her to a sanatorium for three months. Three months. Do you think they give that to anyone in the West? For free?”