“My back hurts, my arms ache, sweat mercilessly floods my eyes. You want to drink desperately, and your head seems to turn by itself to where, at the edge of the field, thirty paces away, next to a pile of all sorts of junk, a fifty-liter milk flask with the inscription “for drinking” gleams dimly. The flask was filled just a couple of hours ago, and the water – ice-cold, from a well – probably hasn’t yet had time to warm up in the sun...”