A Lada Niva with the SBU crest on its doors drives along Davidova Street, its windscreen wipers fighting a losing battle with the thick raindrops. It stops in front of an apartment block. Tarasov, wearing a water-proof raincoat over his leave uniform and carrying a suitcase, gets out. He waves to the SBU driver and hurries towards the entrance where a lonely boy plays with a ball. The ball shoots out into the rain after an ill-directed kick. Tarasov skillfully kicks it back to him. “Thank you, officer,” the boy says catching the ball and curiously studying the medal ribbons on Tarasov’s uniform. “Do you fire real weapons in the army?” “We do.” “And did you ever kill someone?” “No.” “I guessed so,” the boy laughs. “My parents keep telling me that our army is no good.” He starts kicking his ball against the wall again. Tarasov hides his bitter smile and leaves the boy to his game. Stepping inside, he doesn’t mind the smell of garbage and pesticides. It was like that even back in his childhood.
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