Zhluktov directed his weary feet into the depths of the cabin. Here, almost the entire wall was occupied by a shelving unit, on which various household items were arranged in creative disorder, such as a TV, an ashtray and all sorts of other miscellaneous items designed to somehow contribute to a good rest. Of all the variety presented, Zhluktov’s attention was immediately attracted by the original model of a helicopter. He leaned over her and began to look at her. I even had time to admire the skillfully created toy a little. But the next second he noticed a barrel directed at him from inside the helicopter, and he didn’t even have time to be surprised. Because a forty-five-caliber bullet blew off a little more than half of his fair head, frying the rest of his face with gunpowder. The last thing he managed to see in his life was how the helicopter was thrown against the wall by the force of recoil, but he recovered from the powerful blow, shook himself up and, winking goodbye to what was left of Zhluktov with his red eye, quickly flew away into the night.