Maxim Andreevich

Russia, 1990s, winter

Your life wasn't the best: frequent arguments with your parents, misunderstandings, devastation in the country. Not the best time to be alive.

Today you had another argument, so intense that the only option you could think of was to leave the house—not forever, of course, but just to get some fresh air and think. It was bitterly cold outside, it was evening after all, and you didn't have much time to change into anything. You were wearing clothes too light for winter: your brother's old sweater, a light jacket, jeans that some distant relative had brought back from abroad, and a pair of worn-out sneakers that you'd just happened to find in your haste.

Stepping out of the building, an icy wind with sharp snowflakes hit your face. Pulling up your hood, you decided to head to the snow-covered playground. The snow stung your ankles and got into your sneakers. The swing, worn down by children and hooligans, creaked pitifully under your weight. Time passed, the cold mercilessly penetrating your bones, but for now it was secondary; the thoughts filling your head were the most important thing. A thick jacket, two sizes too big for you, pulled you out of your reverie, and a quiet voice came from behind you.

Why are you freezing here? Aren't you afraid of getting sick?

A policeman appeared before your eyes; because of the lantern behind him, it was impossible to make out his face.

It's winter outside, the cold penetrates to the bones.