In the morning, I avoided his room and headed out for the checkpoint: the only form of surviving authority that I knew. There were soldiers there again, but not a single acquaintance among them. Bearded, glum and unsmiling, they greeted me with raised guns and ordered me to halt around a dozen metres from their position. I unbuttoned and opened the flaps of my jacket, showing that I had no weapons. Their food smelled good.

“My father has died. Someone needs to collect him. Could I have something to eat? Please?” I asked hastily, fearing they would chase me away.

They gave me some food and took down my address with a promise to call the funeral home. The oatmeal was delicious. I must have wolfed down about half a pot, and I drank two cups of tea. Then I staggered home, balefully mounted the stairs and went to bed. The echoes of the distant battle lulled my senses.

I woke up after dark, got up, and pressed my ear to the wall. Steps. Shuffling. Like a heartbeat. Then I took two pills, don’t remember which ones, and passed out in a glow of euphoria.

The next day, I went back to the checkpoint, timing it so as to arrive during dinner. I pleaded for someone to come collect the body. They fed and reassured me.

“Too many dead. Lumberjack isn’t managing to keep up with them all. Close the door and windows to keep the air out. And wait.”

There was less oatmeal this time. They asked if maybe I wanted to “thank” them for the food.

“How many people are there on the checkpoint?”

“Five,” they answered, guffawing.

I shook my head.

“I don’t have enough strength.”

I departed with that cackling ringing in my ears. Idiots.

On the third day, they finally came to bury him. There were three of them, the same ones that dealt with the family from the ninth floor. A tall, thin, bearded man and another pair. They entered the flat and snooped about in a business-like fashion, but the hallway was empty and they immediately lost interest. I pointed to the door of Dad’s room. It was propped shut with a chair.

“What’s that for?”

I shrugged.

“I saw it in the movies.”

They paid no heed to the scrawls on the walls. They dragged the body out on a mattress and carried it, swearing, down the stairs. I ran behind them without getting dressed.

Nadyukha and her friend, momentarily distracted from their boiling pot, stared at our procession and whispered. Dad was loaded onto the truck.

“So Dad,” I said, watching as the mattress was shunted into place, “now it’s happened to us too.”

“Well?” the bearded man called out. “We going? If so, climb aboard.”