"Where can you be hurrying to?" the old classmate roared indignantly. He even performed an indignant jig. "You have nowhere to go! Don't you remember me? I'm Izvosia! I used to take your lunch money at school!" The painter immediately remembered this Izvosia, a rare scoundrel, who was two years older than him and had always taken his money, his erasers, and his crayons.
"That's right: nowhere. I stopped by your old place, looking for you. Adik has cheated your gullible ass, hasn't he? And under the stairs, in your closet, it's packed." It was a cold, damp evening, which probably explained the curls of steam coming from Izvosia's mouth.
"Sorry. I'm in a hurry," the painter whispered.
Izvosia's face seemed to be melting in the fog. Here we go, the painter thought. I must be losing my mind from hunger.
"Sure, go ahead and stay here," Izvosia shouted at him, as though from a distance. "Everyone digs his own grave!" And he disappeared in the darkening twilight.
I'm definitely losing my mind, the painter decided. He stood up and took a good look at the building behind him. Its windows and doors were gone; in the lobby, a small tree was growing through a crack in the crumbled floor. The poor painter found a shabby couch in a corner, collapsed on it, and for the first time in a long while fell asleep on a soft surface.
