1.7

"He flew away," Trixie said.

- How is he? Clayton asked.

- Good kid, Clay. I didn't suck it up! Flew!

Clayton nodded. Trixie's grandfather had already called and informed him that the guy was running the flyer himself. For him, it spoke volumes. From a window on the thirty-sixth floor, he could see a flyer flying by. Apparently it was Scythian.

A sad smile slid across his wrinkled face. With the only obedient hand, he brought a doughnut to his nose and pulled in the long-forgotten smell of baking - the aroma of childhood. His Russian grandmother called them "pyshki" and, when her grandson visited her, cooked them so much that for the next few days Clayton himself was like a donut.

Fried in oil puffs... Clayton grinned and took a bite out of a small piece, savoring the taste. The last time he ate something like this was many years ago, when he was a successful spacecraft pilot. More than five thousand days in space! If not for that accident! Lifeboat failure upon re-entry, hard landing
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