There was an anthill in Olya’s lungs. It sounds strange, even fantastic, but it was so, because, frankly speaking, even without any anthill it was difficult to call them lungs: the polluted air of a big city, smoking... Welcome to the world, tasting divine grace and shuddering in the name of the terrible Passport; the world of luxurious alvelofts and slums of the Lower Bronx; a world dreaming of Chaikhona, but crawling along the edge of the Black Wasteland...