He ran home from the parking lot. The man asked the car to push. I didn’t refuse, but because of my health I’d better not do it, so pressing on the hood, I joke: “You didn’t choose it. There would be a piano here, I would play you a mouthpiece, and pushing the machines is not for me. The man somehow coughed and turned away. Thirty seconds later, a wazik enters the yard, as I understood, with the comrades of this man, one takes the car, two start to pull the barrel out of the trunk, and there is a small midi keyboard, octave in two. The first man with a smile shakes in front of me with a device and says: "No, not the piano, of course, but I'll have to drop it."

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