The smooth current of the river, pressed between steep cliffs, inspired calm.
The even splash of the waves against the rocky bank sounded like a warning:
“Half an hour… half an hour until the discharge…”
Mikhail remembered that signal. A kilometer upstream stood the dam of the local thermal power plant. The spring floods had overfilled the reservoir, and the day before, all the households downstream had received a notice — the strengthened discharge would begin soon, and the river would rise. No flooding was expected: the banks were steep, though some meadows in the lowlands would temporarily go under water. Mikhail knew: better to check the pump station again — just in case some fastening came loose.
Limping slightly and squeaking with the prosthetic on his left leg, the man carefully inspected the grounds. Everything was in order. Just yesterday, after receiving the warning, he had reinforced the pipes and the fence, but an extra round of inspection never hurt. Taking off his cap, he ran his hand through his short gray hair, tossed a mat onto a stone, and sat down, massaging the stump. His leg ached — it always reminded him of itself whenever the weather changed. Mikhail took a drag from his cigarette and settled in to wait. He loved watching the gates open. First, there would be a distant rumble, then a white ridge of foam would appear, and suddenly a massive surge of water would break loose, sweeping away branches, debris, last year’s leaves. The river would come alive, purging itself of the old.
He removed his prosthesis, laid it beside him, and squinting, watched as a waterlogged tree slowly floated downstream — will it sink or won’t it? It got stuck halfway on a sandbank. “Caught,” Mikhail noted. In about ten minutes, when the wave came, it would be torn loose. But then he spotted something strange: a tiny creature was frantically climbing up the branches. Squinting harder, Mikhail realized — it was a cat. Gray, soaked, trembling, it was desperately trying to scramble higher. Now it clung to the very top, twenty meters from the shore, claws dug into the branch.
“Poor thing,” thought Mikhail. “In ten minutes they’ll open the gates — it won’t make it.” Hastily fastening his prosthesis, he gauged the distance to the tree. The chances of saving the animal were almost zero — but he couldn’t just walk away. Those eyes — frightened, yet full of hope — he had seen them before.
Almost thirty years earlier, Mikhail had been serving on contract. In a “hot zone,” he was a sergeant on patrol with a young soldier, Dmitry. They were climbing uphill along a narrow trail. Dmitry, rushing ahead, was hit by a sniper — the bullet shattered his knee. He collapsed, screaming in pain. Mikhail remembered that look — a silent plea for help and the understanding that any attempt to save him could cost them both their lives.
Without hesitation, Mikhail fired toward the presumed enemy position to draw attention, then rushed to his comrade. Bullets whistled past — one grazed his helmet. But he made it — dragged Dima behind a boulder while the company laid down smoke cover. Later that night, Mikhail himself stepped on a mine… Since then, both had been left without a leg: one the right, the other the left.
Mikhail quickly shrugged off his padded jacket, grabbed the mat, and stepped into the icy water. The cold burned his body, stole his breath, but it was too late to retreat. He trudged toward the tree, clenching his teeth to keep them from chattering. There — the shoal. The noise from upstream grew louder — the sluices were opening.
“Come on, kitty, don’t be scared!” he rasped, reaching out his hand.
As if understanding, the cat leapt onto him, digging its claws into his shoulder. Pain shot through him, but the man only exhaled: “Hold on.” Turning around, he headed back, pushing his legs with difficulty. The cold was locking up his body, the prosthesis made movement clumsy, his strength nearly gone. The roar of water grew — the wave was closing in. Mikhail felt the ground underfoot, took another step — and collapsed, losing consciousness. The last thing he saw was the cat jumping onto the shore.
He woke up by a fire. A kettle hissed nearby, and the cat, already dry, sat by the flames.
“Leave you alone for one minute — and you’re already stirring up trouble,” grumbled a familiar voice.
It was Dmitry — the same Dima, only now with graying temples.
“Barely managed to haul you out by the collar.”
Mikhail sipped hot tea, warming under his jacket. The cat silently rubbed against his knee.
“Don’t complain, Dima,” he smirked. “You knew I wouldn’t leave him. Same as back then.” He patted the cat’s back. “Now there’s three of us — two cripples and one with a tail.”
“Yeah,” snorted Dmitry. “That one’s yours forever now. You saved him — he’s bound to you. Won’t shake him off, just like me.”
Both men laughed. Then they got up and slowly headed toward the pump station — one limping on his left leg, the other on his right. And between them, barely touching the damp ground with its paws, walked the cat, never falling behind its rescuer.
