“It’s been a bad year,” that’s what she thought every time she woke up in the morning and wanted to go to the toilet. She was lying in a hospital bed. Her legs and arms were broken, but she was lucky that her spine was not. Her left arm, although in a cast, worked, and she could, when the others went to lunch, take a puff or two on the cigarette that Aunt Manya, the nurse, brought from under her when she pulled out from under her a vessel with the waste of her already aging body. You can’t deceive yourself, she realized that here in the hospital. She had an aging body, not a tired one that needed rest. Her toes were already working, the cast was removed, and she began to learn to walk. It was a bad year in every way. She remembers exactly what exactly this thought sounded in her head when she felt the impact and flight and somewhere in the air she lost consciousness. She was hit by a police car. If she had been hit by a decent car, not to mention the car of some oligarch, she could have been in a good hospital, and maybe abroad, but she was hit by a small domestic police car, with two guards, and the worst thing was that they were are right. At first they thought she had died when she fell onto the hood and pressed her face against the glass. The hood of a decent car could bend, but the domestic car, with its stupid features, had a strong hood. There she broke everything that could be broken and began to slowly slide off him, revealing everything she had.