The shalanda gently rocked on the shallow swell. Water splashed softly against the sides, murmuring like a contented cat. The sun had already risen above the horizon and began to warm—the heat settling on shoulders like a woven shirt. Beneath the nets thrown over the hold, mullets glistened, still alive, occasionally flicking their tails. The air was thick with the pungent scent of salt, fish, and wet wood.

  Sikorsky lay on crates, covered with a woolen blanket. His face glistened with moisture and heat. He slowly turned his head, sat up, and threw back the edge of the blanket—it was stifling.

  Kostya sat nearby on an overturned bucket, hunched over the fish. He cleaned them with a long knife, deftly and with an almost affectionate familiarity. At his feet stood a bucket of water; on a board lay a cleaned fish, sprinkled with salt.

  "I love starting the morning by rescuing downed pilots," he said suddenly, without turning around.

  Sikorsky smiled faintly. "Is that a joke?"

  Kostya glanced over his shoulder. "Nope."

  "You mean... you're serious?"

  "Serious," he nodded. "During the Second Coal War, I was fifteen. The sky over Odessa was like hell. We, the boys from Fontan, took our boats and went out to sea. If our guys were shot down—we searched, pulled them out. If they were alive—lucky them. If not—we still retrieved them. To give them a proper burial."

  He wiped the knife with a habitual motion.

  "One pilot we pulled out kept repeating, 'Thought it was all over...' And we told him, 'No, buddy. The gobies will go hungry today.'"

  Sikorsky said, "You're a real hero."

  Kostya waved it off. "Nah, what kind of hero... Back then, you couldn't stand aside. Even now, you can't."

  Sikorsky was silent. Then, in a low voice: "In Poland, it was calm then. But we saw everything. Columns of refugees, old people, children, like shadows. My father and I stood by the highway, handing out water. I felt guilty. Just for not suffering with them."

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  Kostya nodded. He didn't interrupt. A gust of wind rocked the shalanda, and cans clinked in the hold.

  "Old men dream of greatness," he said. "And the young pay for it. With their lives, their health..."

  He looked at the water, squinting at the sun's reflection.

  "That's why I love the sea. It's harsh but honest. If you're drowning—you drown. If you hold on—it carries you. The sea doesn't lie."

  Sikorsky turned his head slightly. His face bore a shadow, not of fear—but of contemplation. He no longer looked like an officer. Just a man who had been pulled back from the brink.

  Kostya, to lighten the mood, waved his hand. "Alright. Let's not dwell on the sad stuff. Better to talk about birthdays with friends and guitars."

  He chuckled.

  "Although, you know, I've decided to celebrate my birthday in a special way. Invite a girl..."

  He paused for a second. Then, suddenly serious:

  "Sonya. Her name is Sonya. I want to marry her."

  Sikorsky sat up a bit more, leaning on his elbow. "Wow. Congratulations."

  Kostya nodded, smiling.

  "She thinks I'm a conceited peacock. And maybe she's right. The first time I saw her, I blurted out some nonsense: like, everyone knows me, how come you don't..."

  He sighed.

  "She just stunned me. I still don't know how to act. How to explain that all that was just nervousness."

  Sikorsky looked at him attentively. "So, you truly love her."

  Kostya blushed, looked away. "Yes."

  "Well, then it'll work out."

  He smiled—genuinely. Quietly.

  Kostya responded with a nod. "Thanks."

  He fell silent, then added: "I'll tell my relatives: a fisherwoman. From the sixteenth Fontan. Beautiful and strong-willed."

  They both smiled. The shalanda rocked. Somewhere, a steamer's horn sounded. Kostya lit the old kerosene stove, brewed tea in a plump teapot.

  "And you?" he asked, without looking. "What do you dream about?"

  Sikorsky was silent for a long time.

  "I..."

  He began slowly:

  "They say you shouldn't share your dreams. They're like candle flames—blow on them, and they go out."

  He turned his head:

  "But you're not a stranger. You're my brother now. So I can."

  He smiled.

  "Amor is on your six."

  Kostya raised an eyebrow.

  "What?"

  "Amor," Sikorsky repeated. "Like a fighter. On your tail and won't let go."

  Kostya laughed. Then became serious: "And you?"

  Sikorsky looked at the sky. "Mars."

  "The god of war?"

  "Yes. He's diving at me. He tears, attacks. Squadron, regiment, deputy commander of the air force. Career. A noble form of vanity—service. To be the best. To achieve greatness."

  He fell silent.

  The shalanda rocked. A fresh breeze blew. The shalanda picked up speed.

  They were sailing home.