Dima Gets Stoned
Finding his way home — Moon over Berlin, B3C13
Dima pushed back in his chair and stretched like a cat, yawning hugely as he tugged on his straw hat. Wind streamed tangy and fishy over the patio, dusting his bare chest with salty silt.
As he dug in his cargo shorts for sunglasses — the brutal Mediterranean sun giving him a squint headache — a clinking noise grabbed his attention. He glanced back up in time to see Solon pulling his fingers away from the black bishop he’d used to kill one of Ian’s castles. Dima grinned. The Greek boy had spotted his chance. Ian was trapped again! Just a few more moves to mate. If the kid knew how to play the end game.
“Il va gagner encore, mec!” Dima teased. “Our second afternoon playing, and you still can’t beat him?”
Ian, down two bishops and that rook, scowled as he surveyed the locked-up center of the board.
Solon laughed. “If gagner means what I think it means, then yes, mate in 5 or less. Watch!”
Dima smiled at Ian’s exaggerated show of concentration, then closed his eyes and relaxed. His mind drifted from the sunny hotel terrace to the cobbled square where he and his friends had hung out the night before.
Ios had turned out to be way smaller than Mykonos. Just steps above the hotel, the tiny…
