Gena Semerkin was a late child; his mother gave birth to him when she was well over thirty. Like most late children, he was very slow and, according to the company sergeant major, his arms grew out of his ass. Gena was reserved, so at first I didn’t communicate with him much, although we were fellow conscripts and served in the same platoon. At the end of the first, most difficult, half of the year, I received a letter from my girlfriend, in which she sent, at my request, a photograph of herself in a swimsuit. However, those two laces could hardly be called a swimsuit and my colleagues looked at the photo with the same passion as porn. Semerkin also looked, after which he said: “Cool girl!” and began to respect me sharply. He began to generously share with me the parcels that his mother sent him every month, and other gastronomic delights that he bought in the garrison store with her equally regular money transfers.