“It’s too early to say. You only usually start seeing it after the war. And this is a war that will never end.”

“Too early? Seriously? Have you seen Toha? The way he stares? How many men in his group have died? And he’s only a lieutenant. When you see your own guys go through this meat grinder, well, you’ll see them in your dreams for all your days. There were twenty young guys in the morning. And in the evening, there were none. And no one cares. Do you think anyone cares? Number One? The Republic? Russia?”

Kostya gestured frenziedly, working himself up into a state of nervous excitement. He should have been trying to remain calm, but it was all so trying.

“I’m shell-shocked. I’ll have forgotten things like that by tomorrow. And you’ll have forgotten it. Because when we’ve seen so much of this shit, it’s all . . . I don’t know what’s in my brain. Minced meat. This.” He pointed at his cutlet. “Do you remember, Doc, how many wounded men you bandaged yesterday? How many bodies you sent on their way?”

K. tapped out a cigarette and lit it.

“I don’t remember.”

“There you go. One morning you’ll wake up at home in Kyiv or wherever, and think: ‘Fucking hell! What was that dream all about?’ And this lieutenant, Toha, in twenty years, he’ll wander into that orchard where they mowed them all down . . . if he’s still alive that is, if he hasn’t shot himself, because our republic . . . Because, you know, our republic?”

“What about it?

“What fucking good is it for? It’s an appendix, not a republic! Russians are just using us.”

“Alright, keep it down.” K. stretched his neck and turned to the window. The firing continued outside, but there was no sign of any incoming vehicles.

“They won’t come.”

“They will. They’ll come. So, what were you saying about him?”

“Who?”

“Toha.”

“Oh, nothing. Just that he’ll head into the orchard and ask for forgiveness, so he can get his night’s sleep at least once in twenty years.”

K. watched the quivering of Kostya’s hands and the twitching of his face. It was amazing the symptoms hadn’t become worse with his second injury. The only thing that had changed was that he stopped smiling altogether. K. took a deep draw and puffed out.

“All we need is some sleep.”

The rumble of a motor and rustling tires outside interrupted their conversation. A Żuk van with its blinkers on pulled up in front of the building. K. ran out and flung open the van’s rear doors. Blood. A lot of blood. And a pale young lad; it was like his face was glowing in the dark. It’s always the same face. Tourniquets fixed around the legs. One leg was half-amputated.

“Hey Grumpy, when were the tourniquets put on?” K. asked the driver wearily.

“Ten minutes ago.”

“Your work?”

“Sure.”

“Anti-shock injection?”

“Nah, we’re out of butarfanol.”