“...Finally, the fifty-third bus arrives. It has just rained, and so the bus slowly floats out of the foggy pre-sunset haze of early October, turns around, outlines the shawarma kiosks with its headlights and the concrete fence of the “Auto Service” plastered with tattered advertisements, exhales with an air compressor, like sighs, thereby raising clouds of heavy wet dust from the ground, and freezes at a stop. The bus resembles a catfish that hid for a long time in the willow thickets, in a snag, in an underwater hole, and then, with the onset of darkness, went hunting. By the way, Baba Sanya, That’s what everyone called her in the village, she said that once on Klyazma, not far from their gardening, a catfish attacked a man and tried to drag him to the depths to swallow him there...”