Special envoy to Kramatorsk, Chassiv Yar and Nykyforivka
In the middle of the scree, a couple stands, looking haggard.
Iryna Mikhaïlovna is barefoot, a handbag placed beside her.
Mark is in shock.
He is wearing a woman's beige skin coat that is too small, probably the only warm clothing he was able to salvage after the explosion;
his tattooed forearms protrude from the furry sleeves.
Lips quivering, he keeps one hand pressed against his chest, as if to calm his heart.
"Hello?
How are you doing?
asks, barely audible, the fifties on the phone
.
So much the better.
As for us, the morning did not start well.
Our house blew up."
A few seconds pass.
"Could we stay with you for a while?"
In the background, the facade of the residential building where the couple lived until a few minutes ago is flayed and reveals, in each apartment, the fragments of a banal daily life: a hair dryer, an ironing board , furniture from…
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