Dawn approached. It was cold. The morning quiet was sullied by the rumble of the vehicle idling at the entrance and the shelling in the distance.

A portly, short-haired man with cheeks red as tomatoes sitting in the ambulance saw K. and shouted: “His royal highness has arrived!”

K. quickened his pace, climbed through the side doors, and the ambulance pulled away with a start. An angry Anton was sitting on a bunk, holding onto a handrail.

“Heeey, Kolya,” he shouted at the driver when they turned sharply, exiting the hospital grounds. “It isn’t potatoes you’re carrying here.” And turning to K., he said: “Doc, this is a first. You’re late.”

K. didn’t follow.

“Heeey,” said the driver, mimicking Anton. “Turns out tired paramedics are softer than potatoes.” He looked over his shoulder and winked. “Listen Doc, you want to hear a new one? I go to the dispensary yesterday, I say: ‘Quick, three body bags. We’ve run out.’ And the woman, she throws up her hands and says: ‘I fail to see the urgency.’” He burst out laughing.

Anton furrowed his thick eyebrows.

“Fuck’s sake, Kolya, though, seriously. What did I have to get up so early for? I’m not the one gagging for all this.”

“I wasn’t late,” said K. “Nobody told me we were supposed to leave at seven.”

“When else? That’s what we always do.”

K. tried to organise his thoughts, but there was no point. He fumbled for the envelope in his breast pocket and that soothed him a little. They drove to the city centre. The streets were deserted. All the traffic lights blinked yellow.

“Do we have an address, or what?” asked K.

“No, we’re just heading toward the smoke,” answered Nikolai.

Grey buildings and the familiar intersection with its billboards passed by. Few cars around. People going out for water. There was a queue at the grocery store, and outside, grannies selling sour cherries, herbs, and apples.

The ambulance went through the intersection, turned left, and braked sharply at the side of the road.

K. nearly fell off his seat.

“Here’s our smoke,” said Nikolai. “Your stop, gentlemen.”

A man was lying on the grass by the pavement behind some bushes.

“The usual,” Anton muttered with disgust, grabbing the metal case holding the drugs and dressings. He swung open the door and waddled out.

“What’s up with him?” K. asked Nikolai. Without waiting for an answer, he jumped out after Anton.

They walked around the bushes. A man in a white T-shirt was lying on his back, his head resting on a whitewashed kerb. His eyes were shut. He looked asleep.

“There’s the crater.” Anton pointed a fat finger indifferently to a damaged section of pavement. “Wasn’t his day.”

He turned the body onto its side. A huge red stain spread across his back.

“A code two hundred. Dead. Direct blow to the back, not a customer for us.” Anton walked further down the street, wearing his detached face of anger. Fifty metres further on, he shouted: “Do we have any wounded here?”