After laying her husband to rest, Anya made up her mind to tackle the clutter in the shed—a place her husband always kept off-limits. She let out a SHRIEK when she laid eyes on IT

While I was away from home, at the business of the firm only had a break with my wife. My parents came into the kitchen. Christopher, don’t make a tragedy out of what happened.

We’re one family, and we have to stick together. Dad started it. Don’t make any rash decisions.

I’ve already made my decision. I just have one question. You knew about everything.

You knew the son wasn’t mine. I spoke calmly, even casually. Not a muscle in my face quivered.

The father was silent. Mother cried quietly. Everything was clear.

It’s Stephen, my favorite son. How could you deprive him of another toy? But Betty, why did she fall in love with me for money? Or did she fall in love so passionately that she decided to have another man’s baby, or just a woman’s stupidity? I silently headed out into the hallway. My father tried to block my way.

You’re not going anywhere. He grabbed my sleeve. Take your hand away.

He sensed something in my voice, and quickly removed his hand. I’m leaving. Don’t try to contact me.

You don’t have a second son. I never had one. I’m filing for divorce today.

I looked at Betty and the paternity suit. Dimka has his own father. Let him raise him.

He’s your son. He loves you. You’re not gonna leave him and me.

I won’t give you a divorce. Betty was hysterical. Dad slapped me on the cheek with the palm of his hand.

What are you talking about? Come to your senses. This is your wife and son. I grabbed him by the chest.

The mother screamed. Christopher, don’t you dare. That’s your father.

If you touch me again, I’ll beat you to it. You old bastard. I pushed my father away from my mother, grabbed my unopened bag, walked past the smirking Catholic standing in the bedroom doorway, and out onto the landing.

Christopher, don’t go. Betty’s hysterical scream was the last thing I heard before the door slammed shut. I was choking with rage.

I stared blankly in front of me for a while. Then I started the engine and drove along the white line painted curve. Before my eyes, through the smirk, Stephen’s whole face.

With what pleasure I would have smeared his insolent face against the wall. But was it worth going to jail for? I guess not. I ended up alone with no wife, no son, no family, no job, and no place to live.

Renewed, so to speak. What’s up? I’ve got to find a place to live. I pulled out my cell phone and dialed the familiar number on the other end.

It was answered very quickly. Hello, it’s the elephant. I was driving the car with one hand and holding my cell phone in the other.

It’s Christopher. I’ve got a minute. Hello, Crank.

To my army buddy, I was still Shatmanov. He was reluctant to call me by my first name. His habit used to annoy me a little.

But now it’s warmed my heart. I’m going to have to stay somewhere for a while again. I haven’t decided whether to tell my friend about my troubles or not.

I’m in trouble. I don’t have a place to live yet. I see.

The elephant caught my thoughts on the fly. Why don’t you come to my place? There’s a place here. Half an hour later, we were drinking fragrant tea in the kitchen.

I categorically refused the offered food. After what I had been through, I couldn’t eat a bite. My cell phone cried.

Betty’s name appeared on the screen. I disconnected the call. I had a fight with my wife.

They poured me some hot tea. He asked with a wry grin. It’s much worse than that.

I replied with a sigh. Much worse. The elephant fell silent, understandingly.

He knew what worse meant. Are you ready? We can go right now. My friend looked at the clock here, not far away in the private sector.

Half an hour away. I didn’t speed behind the elephant’s car. In fact, we hit a dirt road.

And after 20 minutes, we pulled up to a small house standing in the back of a neglected lot. It’s an inheritance from my grandmother, the elephant explained. I don’t know what to do with it.

I’m sorry to sell it. And I don’t have time to work on it. So far, I’ve set up a man’s den here.

Come in, elephant. He opened the lock on the gate and let me through. And a path barely visible in the grass led to the house.

Well, look. The elephant opened the door hospitably. Live as long as you want.

He approached the cast iron one standing almost in the middle. There is wood, and the stove heats up very quickly. A couple of piles.

And it’s tashkent here. You can walk around in your underwear. It’s not cold yet.

The elephant opened the damper and looked inside the cast iron fireplace. Anyway, I have to go to work. And you get settled.

If anything, call me. He went out. And after a while, I heard the sound of a car pulling away.

I went to get my bag, took out my jeans and t-shirt, hung them on the back of a chair. Let them hang them. They didn’t fit in the bag.

I looked around curiously. Inside the house was clean and cozy. The cabin itself was made of basic logs.

And there was a persistent aroma of Smolensk pine in the room. The walls were not stapled, but simply chicken scrubbed and covered with colorless varnish. This gave them a noble matte shade.

The ceiling was uncomplicatedly stapled, meticulously worked planks. All the wooden parts were made on conscience. It was evident that the cabin was built capitally and for a long time.

The few pieces of furniture were old and almost antique. A folding sofa covered with a motley oriental rug stood against a blank wall. By the window itself was roughly boarded up from throws and boards.

The table in the corner hummed old. I remember another Khrushchev refrigerator, a Knepper. At the opposite wall stood a dam and a cabinet from the times of the cult of personality.

On the floor was a thick palace, obviously handmade. On the thin carpet above the sofa hung several hunting knives, without sheaths and an old rifle without a bolt, giving the whole place a hunter’s charm. The sleepless night was taking its toll.

I turned off my phone. Inundated with calls and texts from Betty, I covered myself with a blanket and fell asleep on the couch. When I woke up, it was almost dark.

I tried to remember the slipped-away dream, but my brain refused to obey me. All that was left was the longing gnawing at my insides. I looked in the refrigerator.

I see. It would be weird if there was anything in there. I pulled on jeans, a tank top, sneakers, and threw a camouflage jacket over my head, put on my favorite black baseball cap without a visor, locked the front door, and headed for the car.

It was already noticeably chilly. I closed the window and pressed the gas pedal. The car was rushing along the ring road.

The torpedo slammed into the night air. I didn’t know the neighborhood well and navigated by the glowing storefronts. The private sector was replaced by two-story barracks, built once for the workers of the furniture factory, some of which had lighted windows.

At the end of the street, I saw the green window of a grocery store. I lurked with alcohol, took a couple of bottles of Dagestan brandy, two packs of dumplings, a couple of cans of dry potatoes, cucumbers, bread and some canned fish, and two dozen eggs. It seems to be enough for the first time.

But how long would it last? This first time, I had no idea. At the checkout, I held out my card sleepily. The burly aunt swiped it several times on the terminal and looked at me disappointedly.

Access to the card is blocked in a strained voice, she said. Don’t worry, I’ll pay in cash. I held out the money, picked up the bags and walked to the car.

It made sense. Pops blocked my cards. What a bitch.

I mean, it was my honestly earned money. My barely used paycheck. Good thing I cashed out almost half of it.

I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket. Shit, I turned it off when the screen lit up again. A barrage of messages and missed calls rained down on me.

Without reading, I deleted the garbage and drove home. To turn around, I had to drive to the end of the alley to the intersection. I had already turned left when my attention was caught by a commotion near the archway leading into the courtyard of a two-story barracks.

Against the wall of the house, six in a pile stood a few stripped, frustrated girls and watched tensely as two guys methodically beat their nearly stripped colleague. One of them was holding the unfortunate prostitute by the hair, winding it around his arm for convenience. I rolled down the right window.

The execution took place in silence. The guys were engaged in their usual business, bringing up their ward. The girl did not resist and obediently bore rather strong blows.

She only moaned pitifully. She did not even try to escape from her tormentors. It’s understandable.

Occupational hazard. Pimps educate the contingent to interfere. The girl was no longer on her feet and collapsed under the lantern.

For a moment, her bloody face was in the light. Her producers did not stop beating her. Only instead of using their fists, they started kicking.

The victim was no longer moaning, but wheezing. Her face looked familiar. That’s right.

That’s my nocturnal knocker. An associate, in fact. And scouts don’t leave their own behind.

I jumped out of the car with a baseball bat. Hey, stop hitting her. I shouted, rapidly approaching the place of execution.

One of the managers turned around, showing me his face. This is what I was waiting for. The impact crunch and thud of a fallen body.

The second character reacted instantly and rushed into the back alley. But my rage was looking for an outlet, and I caught up with him in two jumps and hit him on the spine with the bat. The pimp collapsed under the leather.

Such a blow makes the legs fail. The fallen man lay on the asphalt, drooling bloody drool and with taut lower limbs. I looked around.

No help was needed. I carefully picked up the lying maiden and gently placed her on my shoulder, carried her and put her in the car. She only looked at me with eyes frozen in a mute scream and moaned quietly.

I turned around and drove home, avoiding the potholes. Kathy was lying on the couch, and I cut off her rags with a knife. When I saw the naked body, I shuddered involuntarily.

There was one big bruise on her stomach. Her legs are bruised, and there are cuts on the inside of her thighs and epoch marks from extinguished cigarettes. His face is broken and swollen.

What kind of brute would you have to be to abuse a woman like that? I jinkerly felt her limbs and ribs. The girl was moaning normally. Looks like the bones are intact.

But I’d already realized I couldn’t do it. We can’t take her to the hospital. Labila.

She’ll call the police right away. I dialed the elephant’s number. Half an hour later, he arrived with a bearded man.

Sam. A doctor. He introduced himself.

Where’s the body? That’s his humor. The doctor gave her an anesthetic shot. Peroxide washed her wounds, bandaged her up.

She’s lucky. Her bones are intact, but she’s in bad shape. This is a knife.

He handed me a red packet. Give me two pills every 600 hours. Don’t worry.

Your friend will pull through. I shook his hand and looked questioningly at the elephant. A molder.

He caught my eye. I don’t need anything. Robert has already paid me back.

The elephant patted me on the shoulder, and he and the doctor left, and I moved the chair closer to the girl lying there and poured myself a glass of cognac. When I was a kid, I loved riding the railroad. I liked to look out the window, especially when the train was at the station…