“Here,” I hand the man the photo, turning sharply on my heels and, of course, he’s here, stomping after him, hastily throwing off his shoes at the door. “And what kind of crap is this?” “Sergei peered at the photograph with curiosity, snatched it from my weak fingers and unfolded it as expected. “My brain,” I shrug indifferently and fold my hands behind my back, shifting from foot to foot in the expectation that now he will understand everything and I will understand , that I was not mistaken about him. - Hmm, but this thing is very similar to... - And this is a tumor, - I kindly suggest and then add, - And I’ll die in two or three months, depending on my luck. - That’s it, - After a moment of silence, Sergei says, without changing his face, “So, will we have something today, or should I come in later?”