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– I’ll call you if anything happens, – Jeanne says, alerting me to my request. I seem to repeat myself too often. – Everything will be fine, Margarita Alexandrovna. And you need to rest.

That’s really true.

I was in the middle of a conversation, and a nasty little voice inside reminded me of the idea that it was possible to negotiate. And a nasty little voice inside reminded me that I’d been thinking, even if only briefly, that it was possible to make a deal with the moonshiners. And not because they are your little sister’s husband.

Fortunately, the truth came out before I could make the unforgivable mistake that would eat me for the rest of my life.

I leave the house through the back door, then through the wicket in the little garden, which, if the winter isn’t too harsh, will be a lush flower paradise next spring. I check to make sure the lock is secure, and, lifting the collar of my sweater high, I walk briskly down the street. In front of the night store with a burned-out letter “K” in the neon sign “Coteyanya” is a familiar black Mercedes. As soon as I slip into the yellow circle of light illuminated by the lantern, the door next to the driver’s seat opens as if by itself.