Ivan didn't like to stray far from the arena. Today, he tried to tell himself that it was getting late-- it wasn't-- or that he was cold-- he wasn't-- and that was why he shouldn't stay out too long. Some little part of him maybe didn't actually want to find another person. Whoever he found would be American and they might want him to leave the arena for good. There was probably some place that people were gathering who had survived. He supposed that he should go there, where he had the best chance of survival. But he liked his arena, he liked being able to skate and the routine of his days. He liked the created schedule that he had. It reminded him of how things used to be. Of life with the Wings and more so life in the Red Army. Five years of that and it became ingrained in his mind. What would he do a day without skating? He didn't want to find out.
But something else kept him coming out of the arena, to look around. He did miss people. He missed having someone to talk to, someone to share his ice with, someone to see besides his own reflection in the mirror. He wanted other people, he reminded himself.
There was a pile of burnt tinder in the middle of the players lot. It was getting bigger every week. He found some broken pieces of two-by-four and tossed those on top of the ashes. Some cardboard because it caught quickly. Leaves burned fast, but he liked how they smelled. He flicked the lighter and caught the cardboard, letting it spread. If no one saw it, because he didn't think there were a lot of people flying, at least they would smell it.
He walked down the sidewalk for about half a mile, but turned around and came back, instead taking a seat a few feet from the bonfire. He could feel the heat from the flames, but more than that, he could feel the name and number on the back of his t-shirt burning into his back. A good friend, now dead. He couldn't forget them, no matter what. He was the last one, it was his responsibility to remember them, to take them wherever he went. And he would, he promised.