“Knock, knock. Knock-knock-knock. A barely audible crackling sound penetrated the wall of the yaranga and woke me up. Knock-knock... knock-knock... Smiling in the darkness, he gently removed the woman’s hand from his chest, wet from the night sweat, and carefully rose from the fur bed. Having groped for clothes, he slowly got dressed and crawled out of the warm ioronga, not forgetting to close the curtains. Shivering, he looked at the barely smoldering fire in the center of the tent and went outside. Yawning protractedly, he closed the lopsided wooden door and, walking around the yaranga lined with stones, sat down by another yellow-blue fire. The boiling kettle on the tripod whistled peacefully, and with a barely audible hum, burning gas escaped from nozzles almost hidden in the ground. Old Gyrgol, sitting on a white deer skin worn out from age, continued his work without paying attention to me...”