God-forgotten province, wednesday. On the porch of the blacksmith's house sat a man who looked older than his years - thin, in rags, his pants were full of holes from sparks as he helped the blacksmith. It was Efim Dmitrievich, whom the local people simply called “Yushka.” From time to time he coughed from consumption. Was his blouse smeared with fuel oil or soot? He sits now and eats his miserable piece of bread and a glass of milk that the blacksmith gave him. His eyes are pale, and it is not clear how he can still see. He ate, watching as small insects circled on the ground, eating the crumbs from his bread that had fallen to the ground.