My ankles and toes are blistered, the summer heat building beneath my coat. We walk briskly on the crowded strip, and I try to keep up with his lengthy stride to my short one. The seventh drunk guy whistles at me from afar. I spot him waving his wallet. Nikolai has his hand firmly on the small of my back while he speaks quickly into his phone. If I was venturing alone, I think I’d be a little frightened. I’d need one wingman or wingwoman with me. Like a Camila. But I can’t deny—a six-foot-five Russian athlete has been the best defense. No one has approached us or even really considered the feat. I listen to Nikolai’s deep voice, picking up Katya’s name through the jargon. He’s called all of his brothers and now he’s onto a list of his cousins. Apparently she didn’t mention her nightly plans to anyone. He suddenly pockets his phone. “This way.” His hand tightens on my waist, and he redirects me to a crosswalk, a hoard of people gathered underneath the red-hand symbol.
