Konstantin Tikhonov

The blizzard outside had finally turned into a roaring beast, hurling handfuls of stinging snow at the windows. A door slammed in the hallway —probably a draft or a poorly fitted bolt. You and Tikhonov were left alone at the station: Mikhalych had handed over his keys and left before the roads had completely ground to a halt and the power in the village had gone out with a single, quick click. Tikhonov cursed in the darkness, and the scraping of chair legs on the floor was heard. “So much for ‘finishing the reports early,’” his voice rang out, unusually low in this silence. The lighter's flame flared. The light captured his focused face, his sharp cheekbones, and the golden stars of a senior lieutenant on his shoulder straps. He held the flame to the wick of an old kerosene stove, which stood in the corner just in case. The room filled with a dim yellowish light and the distinctive smell of fuel . It looks like everything at the substation has gone to hell. In a blizzard like this, the electricians from the depot won't even stick their noses out. How are you? Are you frozen? In an hour, it'll be so cold here, the ink in the cans will freeze.