ТАЙНА ЗАБРОШЕННОЙ СТОЯНКИ КОТОРУЮ ОБЪЕЗЖАЮТ ВСЕ ОПЫТНЫЕ ДАЛЬНОБОЙЩИКИ СТОРОНОЙ

Palych croaked into the radio: "Don't go to Tikhyi Plyos, kid." Kostya just chuckled. Old men always threaten. It's a hundred miles to the parking lot, your eyelids feel like lead, and there's a sign, almost worn out. You turn off the road, turn off the engine—and all sounds disappear at once. As if someone had turned off the world. The clock on the dashboard would stop at thirteen to three. And a whisper would come over the radio—not Russian, not human. But that would come later. For now—a dead summer night, 2002, and my father's old MAZ truck trundled through the fog. Kostya Laguta drove with one hand. He rested the other on his knee. The road was familiar; he didn't have to think about anything. The highway wound between two district centers, through forest and fields, past villages with a single streetlight. The asphalt was broken and patched. The headlights picked out the road markings, and they flashed under the wheels, flashed and flashed. He counted miles the old way, like his father. Kilometers were for invoices. But for himself, miles. It was more familiar. The heat didn't let up even at night. During the day, the radio reported thirty-five degrees in the shade. Peat bogs were burning somewhere near Shatura, and the announcer cheerfully advised drinking more water. They talked about smoke over Moscow, about smog, about how old people should stay indoors. Kostya listened with half an ear. Moscow was a long way from here. And heat—it's heat everywhere, whether in the capital or here in the wilderness. Kostya didn't drink water. Kostya drank coffee from a thermos—cheap, instant, with the taste of an iron lid. The thermos was his father's, with an iron casing and a dent on the side. The cap was stuck and difficult to open. Kostya had gotten the hang of unscrewing it with one hand, without looking. The cabin smelled of hot plastic. The dashboard had gotten hot during the day, and now, at night, it was giving off heat. Mixed with this was the smell of diesel fuel and old coffee. A familiar smell. Native. It had smelled like this all his childhood, when his father would take him into the cabin—as a boy of about seven, sit him on his lap, and let him hold the steering wheel on a straightaway. The smell hadn't changed. The car was getting old, but it still smelled the same. A cassette tape was playing on the dashboard. "Lyube." The same one his father used to listen to when he was driving this very same car. The tape was worn, hissing in places, but Kostya didn't change it. Not out of sentimentality. He just hadn't gotten around to it. And where would he change it anyway? The radio was old, a cassette player; they didn't install new ones like that anymore. You'll slip another one in—what if it chews. At least this one's tried and true. "Combat-bat, bat, bat," he sang along quietly, trying to stay awake. His voice was muffled, under his breath. He couldn't really remember the words, just droning on whatever was stuck in his head. Just so his mouth would move. Just so he wouldn't be silent. The engine hummed steadily. Kostya knew that hum like his own breath. When something broke, he heard it before the lights came on. The slightest change in note, the slightest flicker—and he'd already pricked up his ears. An analytical mind and a firm conviction that everything in the world has a logical explanation. That's what Kostya thought to himself, and he liked it. He loved it when everything made sense. A knock in the suspension—it was a bushing. A jerk during acceleration—an injector. A cause for everything. An answer to everything. There was a load in the back of the truck. It was a mixed load—furniture panels, boxes of some fittings, a couple of pallets of paint. It had to be delivered by ten in the morning. They'd added on extra cash for the rush hour, and quite a hefty one at that. Kostya had already calculated everything with that money. He'd need to change the tires. He'd give his mother half. And put some money aside for himself—for his first real trip, a long one, thousands of kilometers, not this slog between two empty places. That's the math. Twist the wheel for a year, build a name, and then the more serious trips will follow. South. North. Where the pay is. But for now—furniture panels and paint. For now—be patient. He was twenty-seven. He'd been driving a truck for less than a year. His father had given him the MAZ in the spring when his back finally gave out. A hernia. He could hear the voice of an old man in his thirties behind the wheel—his back had locked up and wouldn't let go. He handed it over and said briefly: "The car is old, but it's a reliable one. It won't let you down unless you let it down."