UNDERGROUND

108

Boris shuffled to his "post" along the way, throwing a glass into the trash can. The crowd of people below flowed like a full-flowing motley river. Peak hour. Boris yawned. He felt heavy apathy and deadly weariness. Putting his hands on the railing, he literally hung on it, spitting on the fact that he began to attract more attention. Yawning again, he stared at the scoreboard. It was already unbearable to look at the streams of people below. He felt nauseous. It must be the crappy schnitzel we had for lunch.

And what if he throws up this undercooked schnitzel right into this human river. That will be fun for Makarov, who reports this to the general. Arrival board and departure board. They also dreamed of him. All these Chrysostom, Penza, Krasnoyarsk. Roughly six. No thirty-five. At eighteen thirty-five nothing arrives or departs. Damn thirty-five!

Having endured only twenty minutes instead of the prescribed thirty, Boris hobbled to the seats and literally collapsed on them, thrust hi