He read them carefully and now and then recognized names from his distant past. Some old figures had died quietly. Some had gone back to prison. Some had stepped away from the life for good. The names of the old guard were disappearing.
The new ones he didn’t know and had no wish to know. In 2005, he suffered his first major heart attack. He had been working at the sawmill, moving wet boards, when a sharp pain hit his chest like a knife.
He collapsed on the ground. When he woke up, he was in a hospital bed in the district center. The doctors told him plainly he was lucky to be alive.
They warned him that his heart was weak now and had to be protected. He was told to take a pile of medication and avoid heavy strain. Boris only nodded.
He took the pills faithfully, worked less, and never complained. Complaining was not in him. Then in 2010, arthritis set in.
In the mornings his fingers hurt badly and his joints ached all over. Walking got harder, especially in winter. The doctor spread his hands and said it was age, plain and simple.
He prescribed pain cream and a course of injections. None of it helped much. Boris aged fast.
His dark hair turned fully white, his back bent, and his hands began to shake. In the mirror he saw a stranger—an old man, frail and pitiful to look at.
But deep down he remained the same hard, disciplined man. His memory was still sharp, and his eyes still saw through people. Only his body had begun to fail him.
In the summer of 2015, police came unexpectedly to the settlement. There were two of them, asking around for Pyotr Ivanovich Kuznetsov. Boris was sitting on his crooked porch peeling young potatoes…
