K. stood over the body a few moments longer, studying the man’s position and countenance.

People were mustering in the street, leaving their homes, peering out of windows. They looked on with a mixture of fear and awe at the body spread out on the asphalt like a meteorite that had landed in the city centre. To begin with, they looked from afar, through bushes, broken windows, and their fingers. Then they came closer. Most of them were in their loungewear: the women in summer dresses, the men in T-shirts and shorts, carrying man-bags. A young man and woman held hands, a little boy wearing only underpants stood by his mother, an old woman with a stick was wrapped in a long, grey coat. Anton walked unhurriedly and asked if there were any wounded people. Nikolai drove along the pavement right up to the body. He stopped and, without leaving the ambulance, took a picture with his phone. A pill-shaped Bukhanka van arrived to take away the body. A tall man with a clerical beard got out of the van and was followed by two assistants. He silently shook Nikolai’s hand. Journalists arrived, snapped pictures and did interviews. With the eyewitnesses dealt with, they filmed a stand-up report to the cameras.

The journalist stood in front of the body, straightened his back, raised the microphone, fixed his hair, and flipped the Apple Watch around his wrist so it was visible. “Today in Slovyansk, a new tragedy,” he said with emotion. “The Ukrainian junta, with its U.S. allies, continue to fire down bombs on peaceful civilians.”

K. moved away. More people gathered. They cautiously approached the body. The boy in the underpants, who was holding his mother by the hand, whined and pounded her thick thigh with his fist: “Mum, please, let’s get out of heeeeere.”

She tugged him toward the body: “Look, there’s Misha, and he’s being such a good little boy.”

Misha and his mother were being interviewed. A plump woman looking at the stricken man burst into tears and dabbed at her face with a handkerchief. Misha said, looking directly into the camera: “When people die, it’s very hard.”

At that moment, there was an explosion. Everyone jolted, froze and then suddenly, in a panic, rushed, scattering to their homes.

It was hard to tell where the shell had landed. The echo of the explosion bounced off the walls and in all directions.

Nikolai jumped out of the ambulance. He, Anton, K., the mother with Misha in her arms, the men with man-bags, and the couple who never let go of each other’s hands, all rushed into the entrance of the nearest block of flats. One person frantically pedalled away on a bicycle. A car flew by at full speed, brakes screeching, and disappeared around the corner.