I met a friend to fly with the whole family to his homeland in Uzbekistan. Further from her words:

We sit in the waiting room. There are a lot of people, but everything is busy and generally quite quiet. The little boy (3 years) is not sitting in place and he is wearing there and there. At some point, he stumbles and is picked up by the good-hearted look of grandfather. The dialogue begins:

You are what? You will break your head! What is your name?

and Sasha.

Are you waiting for the plane?

and AGA.

Where are you going to fly?

To my grandmother!

In which country?

And the little one, taking a full chest of air, gives out to the whole hall:

In to Uzbekistan!

Everything is like in the fog. Under the wild rust, I drag with the husband of the child to the other end of the waiting room. Both are red like cancer.