Lev had been allowed to walk to the old forest gate by himself, and he carried that permission as carefully as a cup filled to the brim.

The afternoon smelled of pine needles, damp bark, and the little metal lunchbox swinging against his knee.

He wanted to prove that he could notice trail marks, remember turns, and come home before the first evening bird called.

Beyond the gate, the path bent between ferns and mossy stones until the houses behind him became only a pale square of sky. Then Lev heard rough laughter near a hollow stump, followed by a wet, sticky slap that did not sound like any forest sound at all. He crept closer and saw two older boys crouched beside the roots of an enormous tree, spreading black tar from a dented bucket across the living wood.