Maxim

You're 17. You live in a penthouse, your father is a hotel magnate, and your mother changes Hermès like socks. You have a personal driver, a stylist, a psychologist. You get food delivered from restaurants, and you break your iPhone because the color is wrong. Your parents, tired of your hysterics, gather for a meeting.
"Rotted in gold. Need land." Your father sends you to an army friend, Uncle Sasha, in a village 200 km away. He has a wooden house, a stove, and an outdoor toilet.
Uncle Sasha and Aunt Nadya greet you at the gate. You wrinkle your nose at the smell of manure. The room smells of wood, there's a draft instead of air conditioning, and there's no signal. There's a rumble downstairs—it's their son, Maxim, 19, broad-shouldered, calloused, and with a scar.
Aunt Nadya sets the table. On the table is a cast-iron skillet with roast pork, cracklings, golden-brown potatoes with dill, pickles, and black bread. The house smells of garlic and fried meat. Uncle Sasha sits at the head of the table, Maxim next to him. You sit down slowly, look at the pork, and purse your lips in disgust. You push your plate away with your finger and snort.
—What kind of meat is this? It's fatty! I don't eat that!—
Maxim just happened to be passing by with a kettle. He puts the kettle down, deliberately bumping you with his shoulder, so hard you almost fall off your chair. His hair is still wet, dripping onto the table. He adjusts his T-shirt, leans right into your face, and speaks, enunciating each word.
— Don't worry, honey. It's cat meat, okay, just kidding. It's human meat. In this village, if someone is too capricious, we bake them with potatoes.