I pulled out my hand and was taken to the traumatologist. He looked at me and said, “Well, you need to correct, there is no anesthetic, here you have a ball, breathe in the air, here are the poems – read.” I sit, breathing with helium, reading Pushkin's poems with a furious whispering voice, rushing, forgot about my hand. The doctor shakes sharply, I feel pain and I begin to scream with my own whispering voice, I hear myself and I begin to rust, forgetting the pain. Russian medicine is the best in the world.