“...There was no smell of anything in the front door. Even by death. And even more so - urine and feces. Feces... The ant tried to smile at his own intelligence. He crawled to the second floor along a wide staircase. Like a real ant. If only ants could exist in such hellish cold. And hunger. The hand thrust into the coat pocket clenched weakly. In the place where there is now emptiness. Nothing. Not a crumb from one hundred and twenty-five grams of bread. Viscous, like clay. What was due to him as a researcher at the Natural History Museum. As a whale keeper. - Why did you do this? His head was spinning, and it seemed to Ant that the voice was heard right in his skull, ringing from the emptiness. - Why did you do this? – the voice repeated. - After all, she will die anyway. And you still have... there was a chance to survive..."