“I was in the city. I went to the hospital. Dad broke his hip. He can’t walk.”

“Is that the one you were living with? I thought that was your grandad.”

“No, it’s my dad.”

“Yeah, I remember him, a real grump, but a great guy.”

“He’s a grump alright.”

I wanted to leave, but he seemed determined to chat.

“You remember Nik? The guy who was with me.”

“I remember.”

“They killed him. In May. He was one of the first. We were in the same unit, at Andriivka, where the armoured train is, you remember? They got him with an anti-tank missile. We put him in a box and returned him to his mum. They say she cried, she wanted them to open it, but they wouldn’t. They buried him just like that.”

“That’s awful,” I said.

“Who the hell fires on infantry with an ATGM?” said Kalash.

“What’s an ATGM?” asked Brick.

It occurred to me I might have seen Nik’s picture taped to the Lenin statue and not recognised him.

“Awful doesn’t cover it,” continued the young man. “We were in the trench shaking with terror. We couldn’t even poke our head out. We’ve been friends since we were kids. We played war together.”

“Alright, come on, enough fucking about, Grey,” Kalash interrupted.

“Hey, where are your manners?” Grey looked like a boy in silhouette.

A roar rumbled overhead. A shell landed somewhere in the woods near us.

“OK, come on, get on home. But no farewells, ok? We don’t do that here.”

“Off you go, sweetie,” Brick hissed, slapping my rear.

They turned off their flashlights and walked back to the checkpoint.

“Just you wait, I’ll get you, gold-fang,” I thought to myself as I limped home.

But who says there are no farewells in wartime? The only words you should never say are ones you’ll feel ashamed of later. They could be your last ones. Not exactly an original thought, I know.

I reached the entrance to our flats and looked at one illuminated window. It was Dad’s room. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. Staring at the lit window without its curtains, and the dim light bulb suspended from the ceiling, I couldn’t quite understand what was happening. Then I saw that the light was on the stairwell too and relaxed. Perhaps I had flicked on the switch the evening before and forgotten.

I climbed upstairs. It was light in the corridor and the kitchen. The passport was on the table. Dad wasn’t asleep, he was mumbling and scanning the ceiling. I turned off the lights, lit the candles, washed my hands, spread the medicine out on the floor, and gave my father two injections. And I changed the wet sheet.

Gusts of strong wind rattled the loose window frames. It started to rain again. The candle flickering in the draught cast swaying shapes, shadows passed over my father’s face, which was at turns composed into an angry grimace or smiling at some vision. My body hummed with tension.