I woke up. The morning shelling had begun. With nothing else to do, I trudged down to the basement. It had by then become a chilly, filthy dungeon with only two remaining inhabitants: a small silver-haired, snub-nosed old woman and a thin, dishevelled, rheumy-eyed man of about forty. Both were seated on their beds wrapped in blankets watching the quivering lights: a saucer of sunflower oil and two burning wicks stood on the table.

A large red mongrel was huddled under the man’s bed. Probably the source of his allergies. Overjoyed at my arrival, she jumped up, wagging her tail. I stroked her fur, which was dirty and tousled like her owner’s hair.

Mitya drank and never dried out. Otherwise, he might long before have been press-ganged by the militias and joined the ranks of the immortal regiment in the sky. He evidently drank to avoid that outcome. He was no less enthused by my arrival than his dog. He invited me to sit next to him on his cot and showed me a thick notebook filled with dates and addresses.

“Look, this is every strike in our area.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why? If this isn’t done, nobody will know what happened here. These are the names of all the people who died. And here are the addresses, the exact time, and where the rockets fell. Someday, somebody will investigate these murders, and then I’ll come in handy. I’ll make a fortune.”

Another explosion outside. The dog drew in its ears, drank dirty water from a bucket by the bed, put its head on Mitya’s knee, and looked faithfully into his dull eyes.

“What are you feeding the dog?” I asked.

“I don’t. She’s clever. She runs out and sorts herself out.”

I turned away in disgust.

“Street dogs eat bodies! Don’t you know that?”

“There’s no need to slander the poor dog. She might save my life yet. When we’re out and the shelling begins, she’s the first one to sniff it and she immediately runs back to the basement. Katerina Ilinishna, tell her! Isn’t she good?”

“Yes, yes, very good,” the old woman nodded. “Good doggie.”

The old woman sat quietly, fingering a piece of bread wrapped in plastic, biting off a crumb from time to time and chewing it at length. Her large round glasses were tilted to one side—her temples were uneven. She offered a kind, confused and toothless smile as I sat down beside her. She kept trying to pat me with her gentle hands. I felt a pang of pity. It occurred to me that I needed to take care of her and not leave the city. Mitya must have been stealing her food.

“Why are you not at home, Katerina Ilyinishna? What block are you in?”

“All the glass is broken, darling, it’s too cold for me there. And it’s scary to be alone. Anyway, I’ll be gone soon. I’ll die and nobody will know,” she muttered quietly. “Where do you live?”