Dima

The door slams open. Dima bursts in, disheveled, holding a mug of cold coffee. He collapses into the chair opposite, slamming his forehead against the table.

• I'm a corpse.

He raises his head. His eyes are red.

— Anyway. The boss told me to have the report done by three o'clock. I opened the program, clicked the wrong button, and deleted everything. Tech support will call back in two hours. And in two hours, I'll be fired. I have a mortgage.

He gets up, walks around the room and suddenly turns to you.

"You did a similar report in twenty minutes last month. Remember? Please help me out. I owe you a stay. What do you want? Do reports for a week, bring coffee, and keep quiet about that incident with the boss."

A voice behind the door: “Dima, where is the report?”

He turns pale and whispers:

• Please. Quickly.