Chapter 1

What about me? I kept quiet because Matvey Ivanovich had asked me to. "No need to stir up a hornet's nest, Daria, trust an old man. They'll gossip and then calm down. The main thing is for you to watch and learn how everything works here. You're a bright girl; you'll manage. There's no reason to pay attention to such foolishness!"

And I agreed with him. No reason at all. Especially since my workload turned out to be Mount Everest!

But even if the boss hadn't asked, I had no intention of telling anyone how Matvey Ivanovich and I had met. I don't like talking more than I have to. How one day this rich widower—a rather scrawny little man to look at, if I'm being honest—felt ill during his morning jog in the park and went sideways, sideways… until he toppled bodily into the nearest bushes. He lay there for more than an hour in the October damp, and who knows when he would have come to, if I hadn't been running past the old park with the kids that morning, cutting through on our way to daycare.

Late, obviously, and combining exercise with a walk. What did you think?

"Mo-om, look, some guy's lying over there!"

"Stepa, what kind of way is that to talk? You say 'a man.' Where?"

"There, look! What's he doing there? And why is he barefoot?"

What he was doing wasn't hard to guess, judging by the empty bottle from some cheap liquor lying off to the side—a few yards away, near the trash can. But he was lying in a painfully uncomfortable way, nose in the bushes, legs up in the air, without shoes or socks, wearing nothing but his underwear. And he had evidently been in that position for quite a while, judging by the deserted surroundings and the fact that the stranger had already been stripped and relieved of his shoes—by his drinking buddies, one had to assume.

I stopped and turned around. Then I came closer. A fine autumn drizzle had started, the kind that soaks straight through you, but the man showed no signs of life and didn't react when I approached.

"Hey, sir?… Hey, can you hear me?!"

"Mom, is he a bandit?" Stepa wouldn't let up. At the time, he adored robbers of every kind. "Can I poke him with a stick too, like you?"

"No!"

"Mom, that's not fair! I want to, too!"

"And I wan' my song!" little Sonia sniffled, hugging her umbrella to herself. "Mo-om!"

"Kids, will you just wait! Can't you see this man's in trouble? And actually, Stepa, hold on to Sonia and step back. I'll try to wake him up myself. And stay out from under my feet! We may have to call an ambulance here!"

Stepa liked the part about the ambulance, and he instantly spun on his heels so fast his hat almost flew off his red head.

"Whoa! Really, Mom? With flashing lights?!"

A mustached runner with an air of importance jogged past and informed me:

"Miss, leave that drunk alone! Can't you see how blue his face is? We have deadbeats like that scattered through the bushes every day—thick as mushrooms!"

Well, I don't know. I wasn't so sure about that last part. The park was public, after all, and at least once in a while security was supposed to make a round through the grounds. But I didn't get a chance to object. Because while I was distracted by the runner, ever-present Stepa still managed to grab a piece of long deadwood, leap forward, and jab the poor man in the backside hard enough to make me gasp. The man in the bushes groaned, came to, and begged quietly and pitifully:

"Help me!"

"R-right now! Shoo, Stepa! You're such a little live wire!… Hey, sir! Come on, give me your hand. I'll try to pull you out!"

I couldn't pull the stranger out on the first try, but I still managed to climb into the bushes and get him onto his feet. I tugged him farther away by the elbow.

"Miss, why am I half naked?" he asked after finally stopping his groaning and looking himself over in surprise. He lifted his eyes to me.

"Then you should drink less, sir!" I couldn't keep the reproach out of my voice as I shook fallen leaves from my hair. "At your age!"

The little man looked about seventy—wet and rumpled. And with that blue, scratched-up mug, he looked exactly like my drunk neighbor, Uncle Slava. Except he didn't smell like alcohol, and there was something in his pale eyes… innocent, maybe. Sober and astonished. As if life had just treated him terribly unfairly.

Holding a hand to his heart, he absently wiped his forehead with his palm and slapped at his empty pockets. More precisely, at the place on his underwear where the pockets should have been.

"It's cold. And I don't have my phone. I don't have anything," he suddenly complained, "not even my keys!"

I only shrugged and sighed. What did that have to do with me? But then I looked at the "drunk's" bare feet standing in a shallow puddle and at his pale, skinny knees, and I reached into my bag. I found a newspaper with apartment listings in it, spread it on the bench, and sat the little man down on top of it. Still better than having him stand on the asphalt. I took my phone from my pocket and offered:

"All right, I can call someone. Tell me who to call. But make it quick, because we're late for daycare!"

The stranger nodded in agreement. In a weak voice, he asked:

"Call Ruslan!… No! Better Sergey, my driver—he should already be in the garage. Although…" Suddenly frowning, he waved a hand. "It won't work."

"Why not?"

"I don't remember the number. Neither his nor my deputy's. Why are you looking at me like that, y-y-young lady?" he grumbled, his teeth chattering, in response to my sidelong glance. "I've got more i-important things to remember than that, believe me! I don't need to c-clutter my head with nonsense!"

Sure. Of course. I believed him completely! But I tried to keep my expression serious.

I don't know what the little man had been drinking here with his friends, but it was clearly something hallucinogenic. Or maybe the cold had made him slightly delirious?

Sitting sideways on the bench, I opened my bag on my knees and found my wallet at the bottom. I opened it, took out a bill, and shoved it into the stranger's hand.

"Here, take this. I really can't give you more. I rent my apartment, and every penny counts. But this will be enough for the bus and a roll with coffee—there's a kiosk by the stop. And I have to hurry… The kids are waiting, you understand?"

"I understand."

But the man didn't take the money and pushed my hand away. With a sigh, he looked around… then rose from the bench and put his bare heels right back into the puddle. He trudged away from us down the little path toward the park exit, not even noticing that the newspaper had stuck to his underwear.

Sonia's little mouth fell open in surprise, and Stepa burst out laughing. I had to give my son a light swat on the back of his hat and, groaning inwardly, take the kids by the hands and hurry after the little man.

Seriously, why me?! It has been like this since childhood and never stopped! Who gets a cat down from a tree? Dasha! Who runs all over half the city looking for the neighbor's dog? Me again! Why did I, and not the mustached runner, have to stop and poke the little man with a stick? Do I have to be the one who cares more than anyone else?