“Six months have passed since my mother’s funeral, and Lelya, burdened with Zhenya and the stove, realized that time has a deep disregard for people. What does he need, time? He is in a hurry, running, as if ahead they give free sausages as much as you want. The hours scatter like mercury balls from a broken thermometer. It is impossible to catch them, fold them tightly, beautifully, without voids. It’s scary to think how many hours a person’s unloved work and household fuss steal from him. Here, Zhenya has ample and affectionate time. It’s always like this in childhood. In childhood, every minute matters. In a minute Zhenya manages to ask a hundred questions and at the same time do something…”