The year is ninety-two. July. A fresh scar is healing on my head, and the wind is blowing in my pockets. There are friends and work, and also problems. And how could it be otherwise, since the boy said, “the boy did it, but the entry is a ruble, the exit is two?” If you're smart enough to contact the wrong people, you'll have to bend over backwards to avoid ending up in jail or, worse, in plastic bags. In parts. But I was just going to earn a little extra money...