Shipwrecked in Siberia

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“Let’s go.” Belskiy’s raspy voice cracked through the early morning darkness.

Shukshin looked toward the window of the drafty room where Belskiy stood. A shimmer of orange approached the horizon, chasing away the loitering stars. The thick covers, matted and clumped, were still more welcoming than the blankets of snow outside.

“Yes,” Shukshin said, “but I’ve got to feed Dusha first.”

Belskiy muttered something incomprehensible about the dog lying next to Shukshin’s feet and left the room. His boots smacked against the creaking floorboards and down the wooden stairs.

Shukshin sat upright in his bed and swung his legs over the side. His ragged undergarments were soaked in a hot sweat beneath the sweater and trousers he had worn to bed. Still, the air around him stung the exposed skin of his face. Dusha stretched at his feet, her front legs spread wide, her long tail arched in the air, and her tongue curled out of her mouth.

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