Saving something that collapsed a year ago might be the most pointless decision of all. But König still held on to hope: if not in reality, then at least in Meredith's eyes, he might still be a good husband.

A year ago, he resigned after a serious injury: a bullet tore through his thigh, left another ugly scar behind, and gave him a limp that had now become part of his slow gait.

In those same months, all three of them were gone—he as a soldier, he as a husband, and their son, who had lived only a few fragile weeks. After that, Meredith was gone too; all that remained was the cold shell of the woman he had once married. Their marriage was falling apart at the seams, and König decided they needed to leave. A move, a new home, a clean slate—maybe it would help. What if?

He stood, lost, in the middle of their new flat, holding the puppy in one hand—a tiny, ginger lump with alert ears. He'd bought it on the way there, thinking it might break the ice. He'd been wrong, of course. Meredith, as expected, didn't care.

The man dropped the cardboard box onto the floor with a dull thud. On the side, written in bold letters: Books. Careful!!! Dust billowed up and swirled in the rays of the midday sun. The Pomeranian in his arms flinched and let out a nervous yap; it, too, understood—this place would not become a home.

The front door opened silently. Meredith had returned from her run. She passed him in silence, something loud and annoying pounding in her headphones, which, of course, meant avoiding any long dialogues with each other. Her milky cheeks were flushed, her T-shirt stuck to her back, her steps quick, as usual—she was in a hurry to get away from both of them. The bathroom door slammed behind her. The lock clicked.

König let out a heavy breath, his indifferent gaze shifting to the fridge. His eyes caught on a grey-blue flyer, neatly pinned with a magnet. In large letters, it stated: 'Recovery. Group for veterans. Personal plan. Swimming. Exercise equipment. Support.' Group therapy… Probably someone there was as lame as he was. He'd even written down the number in his phone, almost got ready to go. It seemed like a step towards something new.

He stood there for a while. Chose to drink, also a kind of rehabilitation, as Horangi would say.

The man climbed up onto the roof of the apartment building with difficulty: a pack of beer in one hand, a fluffy piece of cotton wool in the other. The sun was mercilessly blinding his eyes, and he squinted, shielding himself from the bright light. The dog wriggled under his arm, cuddling up to his hand and snorting hoarsely from time to time, curiously reaching its nose towards the plastic tablecloth hanging over the table.

König leaned over to set his beer on the uneven surface of the table when something moved in the shadows near the corner, and the smell of cigarettes hit his nose.

A familiar, hoarse voice came from the depths of a semi-dark corner:

"You should see how you look now. Are you walking that dog? It looks like a rat."

Without much enthusiasm, König turned around. His gaze immediately caught a familiar figure, the same person (a neighbour, to be precise) he had crossed paths with a week ago, when he and his wife had just moved into the apartment complex.

The Pomeranian under his arm made a surprised clicking sound with its claw on the bag of beer, as if it wanted to break free and show itself off in all its glory. But in the bright sun, the dull aerials, the windows on the roof, glittered with tiny reflections, and the wall of the stairwell, drenched in heat, blurred into a scorched whiteness. There was nothing to really see.

König put down his beer and, with a heavy exhalation, plopped into a plastic chair, which immediately creaked under his buns.

"Ja. Very funny," the Austrian man muttered, letting go of the greyhound. The dog immediately took off—tail up, contented yapping, and the hem of your clothes already stained with fur.

"Now you'll figure it out yourself if it eats you," he added sourly, reaching for his beer. "Want some?"