Meduza’s publishing house has released Kiru vsyo zaebalo (“Kira Has Fucking Had It”), a novel by journalist, writer, and book blogger Sergei Lebedenko — author of the Telegram channel Knigizhar (Book Grill) — about a history teacher from a small Russian town who believes in patriotic ideals, collects care packages for the front, and loves her job, but again and again runs up against a world where familiar ideas have long since been stripped of their original meaning, leaving no room for her sincerity. Kira also sometimes sees and hears things other people can’t — she “goes under.” These episodes don’t make her life any easier, either: One day she starts seeing in them the most terrifying thing that could possibly happen. We invite you to read the novel’s first chapter, translated into English, in full.

Caution: This excerpt, like the book’s title, contains strong profanity.

Now, a word problem!

Kira and Zhenya have 10 boxes of humanitarian aid collected from all the classes in one grade. Kira collected seven of them, and Zhenya collected three. Kira is exhausted just looking at all the boxes they have to haul — all she wants is to lie down and not think about anything — while Zhenya dishes out gossip and dances around cheerfully. Question: Which one of them deserves a day off more? Bonus question (for extra credit): Which one will the principal appoint as adviser on student activities and character education?

“And she’s like, ‘Yevgenia Nikolavna, why do soldiers need tampons? Are there really that many women out there?’ And I’m like, fuck if I know what to tell her. So I say, well, there are women there, sure, but tampons — they’re, uh, good for wounds, too. Men use them as well.”

Well, at least working together isn’t boring.

“Why do they need tampons, right. Because their noses are bleeding from sheer happiness out there. Jeez. Why did I even bother showing them that war documentary? Zhe, pass me some more twine, be a pal.”

Kira and Zhenya are sorting the donations into boxes. They’re coordinating donations from all the classes in that grade this time — which means they collected the stuff, they’re packing it, and they’ll be the ones filing the report. They’re like machines on an assembly line of collective goodwill, their small hands cramming plastic bags and little black pouches into neat, countable cubes. One box is just for socks, another for medicine. Then there’s canned stew, three-in-one instant coffee packets, tea bags, sugar, salt, basic essentials kits, bundles of letters from the middle schoolers, cards from the first graders with hand-drawn green soldiers who for some reason have bloated bellies and multicolored “Hurrah!” speech bubbles, trench candles the boys made in shop class, wire, and bricks of wax. Somebody’s dad even lent them walkie-talkies from his workplace, along with a pack of batteries. The boxes fill Zhenya’s corner of the classroom from floor to ceiling, leaving Kira already pleased with their work and very, VERY tired. Next to the boxes on the desk sits a red-speckled mug, giving off a tempting scent of mint tea.

“What’s a documentary gonna do? They don’t have a clue. She just blinks at me and goes, ‘But there are antibacterial Band-Aids and that green antiseptic dye! They showed us at the museum.’”

Kira shakes her head. She and Zhenya spent two weeks going around the school asking students to bring in whatever they could. Some did, some forgot. No wonder most of them forgot, given how little they seemed to care about what was happening.

“Band-Aids, right. Next they’ll think there’s an espresso machine and pizza delivery to the trenches. She’s lucky she doesn’t get it yet.”

Zhenya’s rhinestone flats click across the linoleum as she snips a length of packing twine with a big pair of dressmaking shears. Her sleeves rolled up, Kira ties up the boxes. Plastic bags and corrugated cardboard rustle.

“Stas posted stories from Thailand again. Did you see?” Zhenya asks.

“With what money, I wonder? He’s a tutor.”

“Not anymore. He ditched everyone. The little shits, too. Now all the moms are scouring local chat groups for a math tutor and coming up empty. He’s in IT now! Got hired somewhere as a, whatchamacallit. A junior dev. And now he’s just chilling there working remotely. Well, ‘working.’ Lying on the beach, drinking cocktails. With his laptop by the sea.” She sighs and adds, “I wouldn’t mind that either.”

Kira snorts.

“You two had a thing. Text him — maybe he’ll invite you to stay.”

Zhenya rolls her eyes theatrically, though it’s not lost on Kira that her earlobes are turning red.

“That was ages ago and doesn’t count. Two weeks is nothing, Kir.”

“Right, and you still follow him on Insta.”

“I’m not… It’s just, you know how he was. Always whining that he had no future in broke-ass Russia or whatever. ‘I can do anything, I’m a badass mathematician, I’m wasting my talent here.’ Feeding me lines about how he’d unlock my potential, how being with him would give me a shot at, like, the good life. Drove me fucking nuts. Now I’m just curious how that good life of his is panning out.”

Kira rolls her eyes and waves a hand, as if the answer isn’t obvious.

“Give it time, they’ll screw him over soon enough just for being Russian. Nobody likes Russians anywhere. We’re the most persecuted nation on earth. He’ll end up bumming around the streets, smoking weed in some lice-infested shelter, begging for donations for grub.” Kira drops her voice into a mock boom: “‘But I’m a good Russian, I fled evil Putin! Where’s your democracy?’” She catches sight of Zhenya hacking away fiercely with the shears and cuts herself short: “Zhe, what did I tell you about the length of the twine? How am I supposed to wrap a box with this?”

“Sorry.”

She apologizes lightly, effortlessly, as if it costs her nothing. Apologizes and goes right back to humming under her breath. Kira doesn’t recognize the tune. Zhenya never listens to Russian music anyway, even though she teaches Russian. And she loves her job — swears she can still recite Pushkin’s “Ruslan i Lyudmila” (“Ruslan and Lyudmila”) by heart. Kira doesn’t buy it, of course, though she’s never once managed to call her friend’s bluff. That annoys Kira. So does the fact that Zhenya is beautiful. Not just put-together — genuinely beautiful. Zhenya has blue-black curls, without a single gray strand, whereas Kira’s… With fingers trembling from the strain, Kira brushes her temple, knowing the gray is already spreading there. Then she remembers how she usually comes out in photos: her face always twisted, as if she’s about to burst into tears. And she envies Zhenya even more.

A blond boy in a rumpled black vest barges into the classroom — its walls hung with portraits of classic writers, its windowsill lined with orchids (“Kira, why haven’t they bloomed for me in so long! Is it my aura or something?”). He’s breathing hard, like he just sprinted here. He looks like a chinchilla that just hopped off its wheel. In his hands is a green gift bag decorated with snowflakes, the words “Happy New Year!”, and a red reindeer with antlers. Sticking out of the bag is a pink ribbon like the ones they tie around cake boxes.

“H-hello, Yevgenia Nikolayevna, I b-brought you…” He shifts from foot to foot, as if he’s never been in this classroom before or sat beneath Pushkin’s indifferent gaze. “I heard you were collecting aid, and…” Then he spots Kira and says, “Oh, hello to you too, Kira Sergeyevna.”

“Hey, Korneyev,” Kira says with a nod. “What’d you lug in there, a cake?”

Vitya from 7B takes a step forward and sets the bag on the desk. Zhenya stops measuring out twine and gives Kira a strange look.

“What?” Kira shrugs. “That’s what it looks like, see for yourself. Isn’t that a cake?”

“Kir, there’s nobody there.”

Empty. No bag, no Korneyev. Just the air, gone suddenly thick — as if someone has just walked out and left the door ajar behind them. Kira rubs her cheek as goosebumps prickle across her skin. This has happened before, and she knows what comes next: Zhenya will give her a worried look and ask whether she’s been sleeping or having her “things” again, and Kira will brush it off, and they’ll drop it.

“Did you get any sleep at all last night, girl? Or are you having those… things of yours again?”

Kira rolls her eyes, waves her off, and goes on sealing a box with a double layer of packing tape. Zhenya goes back to her work and her humming as if nothing happened. She nicks herself with the box cutter and says, “Fuck.” Hard to tell whether it’s because it hurts or because she got blood on the donations. Kira helps her dig a Band-Aid out of the pile of clutter and boxes, and they quickly forget the whole incident.

Kira ties the twine around the last box. Red-and-white logos of the Movement of the First, the state youth organization, are pasted on the sides. Kira stacks the boxes into a neat pyramid — it looks almost like a New Year’s tree — and snaps a photo for social media. Then she spots an ugly strip of tape sticking out on one box (did she botch that, or did Zhenya?) and carefully trims it off so she doesn’t damage the logo. She takes the picture again while music from Instagram Reels blares from Zhenya’s phone. She puts the post up on the school’s page with the caption “Our school is once again pitching in to collect supplies for the fighters of the 777th Separate Motorized Rifle Brigade!” — festive emojis, hashtags, “Publish.” Then she opens her messaging app and blasts the link out to the parents so they don’t forget to share it on their own pages. Kira is a one-woman band. She’ll collect the stuff herself, label it herself, file the report herself, message each mother privately herself, and patiently listen to every last complaint about their precious little darlings acting up.

No wonder she barely sleeps at night.

Of course, the principal doesn’t like her — she prefers Zhenya, the chatterbox and the life of the party.

They load the boxes onto a four-wheeled iron dolly borrowed from the shop teacher. Mikhail Valeryevich, the mustachioed shop teacher, grumbled for a long time, complaining that people were always breaking his dolly, before finally giving in.

The squeak of its wheels — eek-eek, like the little coffin in a children’s horror story — drives Kira up the wall, but there’s no helping it; they couldn’t find another one in the school.

Before they can wheel the dolly out of Zhenya’s classroom, Vitya Korneyev comes barreling in. He’s breathing hard, like he just sprinted here. In his hands is a blue bag with “Happy New Year!” written in glitter and a cartoon reindeer in a scarf. Sticking out of the bag is a box tied with a pink ribbon. Kira glances sideways at Zhenya. Zhenya gives her a strange look and nods almost imperceptibly: this time, yes, he’s real.

“H-hello, Yevgenia Nikolayevna, Kira Sergeyevna, I b-brought you…” Vitya falters. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes, Vitya, Yevgenia Nikolayevna and I are just having a… rough day. What is that, a cake?”

Flushing red, Vitya pulls out the box. Underneath it in the bag are cans of food, too.

“We were actually collecting canned sprats and stew and socks and stuff, but then my mom said the soldiers probably don’t even have anything sweet to have with their tea out there, so I figured… It’s a Moskva cake. With nuts. My favorite.” He says it with a touch of pride. But when he sees the way Zhenya is looking at the bag, he mumbles, “If… well, if it’s… against the rules, I’ll take it back. Really. We just… Well, Mom said sweets cheer you up, and things are so bad in the war that…”

Zhenya sighs and flashes Vitya an encouraging smile.

“We’ll figure something out, Vitya. Just set the box down flat so it doesn’t tip. Then you can head out.”

“A-are you sure? Maybe I could…”

“Thanks, Korneyev,” Kira says, shaking his sweaty hand. “A regular home-front hero.”

He’s about to leave, but the sight of two women wrestling with a heavy dolly apparently awakens some genetic memory of the age of chivalry in him.

“M-maybe I can help you? All this is probably really heavy to haul…”

Zhenya waves him off with some polite, noncommittal remark, but Kira stops her — no, no, let him help. At least she won’t have to haul the boxes by herself; in her partnership with Zhenya, the heavy lifting would naturally fall to Kira.

“You shouldn’t rely so much on other people. You know what a great bicep workout this is? Check it out!” Zhenya says, clenching her fist and flexing. “A couple more drives like this and I’ll open my own fight club.”

“And whose face are you gonna beat in? Your own, like Tyler Durden?”

“Yours, for the dumb jokes.”

Vitya picks up the top box and hugs it to his chest. It’s clearly on the heavy side, though he tries not to let it show. He balances the cake on top.

“Careful, Vitya, don’t drop it,” Zhenya says. “Or we’ll all end up covered in frosting from your favorite Moskva cake.”

“I’m fine, I’ve got it!” Vitya blurts out. The mention of fight club must have spooked him.

They walk past the chemistry and physics classrooms, past the geography room, where the door is always wide open and a map of Olkhovsk older than Kira herself hangs on the wall. It still shows the House of Pioneers, and some little shit has circled the airfield in red marker and labeled it “base.” Past the staircase, past the tree of human rights painted on the wall — from the right to life at the roots, a trunk labeled “The Constitution” rises and branches out. The dolly squeaks sullenly — week, week — across the waxed parquet floor. Rowdy high schoolers pass them going the other way, but none of them offer to help; they look away, pretending not to notice. Kira isn’t surprised. She knows grown-ups like that, too. Even dated one once, to her own regret.

“Not a single one offers to help,” she mutters. “Only the middle school boys have a conscience around here.”

With a teacher’s satisfaction, Kira watches Vitya blush.

At the top of the stairs going down, they unload the dolly, and then Kira and Zhenya grab it by either end and carry it down the cracked steps. The stairwell wall was recently painted, and the heady smell of paint thinner hangs in the air. On the ground floor, two boys from Kira’s eighth-grade homeroom pop out like jacks-in-the-box. A button is missing from Starostin’s uniform pullover, and stocky Bakiyev is flat-out wearing a regular shirt and jeans. The school year has barely started and they’re already out of uniform, the knuckleheads. Kira is about to say something biting — the kind of remark that gets under the skin of men of all ages and stings worse than a formal write-up. But both boys freeze on their own when they spot their homeroom teacher, Zhenya, and a red-faced Vitya.

“Wait, are we collecting aid, Kira Sergeyevna? Again?” Bakiyev asks in surprise. “Didn’t we just do that in May…”

“Not ‘again’ — ‘once more,’ Bakiyev,” Kira snaps. “Soldiers eat every day, you know. Candles burn down, and socks wear through. So,” she says, giving the stack of boxes a pointed look, “we’ve been helping and we’re going to keep helping.”

Bakiyev opens his mouth to argue, but Starostin — who doesn’t usually live up to a surname that means “class monitor,” though something seems to flip a switch in him now — beats him to it: “Let us help you.” One snatches a box from Kira’s hands, the other from Zhenya’s. Then they relieve Vitya of his box and the cake. Vitya is left empty-handed, looking slightly crestfallen.

“Hey, I wasn’t just standing around either…” he starts.

“Of course you weren’t. Take the dolly back to the shop room,” Zhenya says. “I’ll give you an A for helping.”

Beaming, Vitya grabs the dolly handles Kira has just let go of. The dolly groans, as if remembering its youth.

“So what about us — do we get something for helping? Kira Sergeyevna?” Starostin chimes in, looking as indifferent as he possibly can.

Kira hasn’t been teaching all that long, but she’s learned one thing for sure: Keeping order in the classroom and earning students’ respect starts long before the bell rings, which means sometimes it pays to throw the little shits a bone.

“Fine.”

Inspired by the easy grades, Starostin and Bakiyev arrange the boxes by the stairs like an art installation. A bright shaft of sunlight reflects off the windows across the courtyard, and Kira asks them to take a picture of her and Zhenya with her phone — for the report. They don’t have any other pictures together.

“Kira Sergeyevna, are you on Instagram?” Starostin asks out of nowhere as he hands the phone back to Zhenya. Bakiyev snickers — he already knows what she’s going to say.

“Instagram is banned in our country, Denis,” Kira says with a calm smile. “I have no business being on there.”

“Yeah, well, we saw you liked Yevgenia Nikolayevna’s post!” Bakiyev blurts out. The shape of his head makes his ears look like they’re wiggling when he talks.

“It’s good practice to keep an eye on one’s colleagues,” Kira says, though with a little less confidence now. “Spying on your teachers, however, is not a great idea — unless you want your conduct grades to suffer.”

Bakiyev gives her a sly look, while Starostin doesn’t miss a beat:

“You shouldn’t write it off, Kira Sergeyevna. You’d be really good at it. Just like Yevgenia Nikolayevna… almost.”

Kira doesn’t know what to say to that. She catches Zhenya’s amused glance. While Starostin and Bakiyev load the boxes back onto the dolly, she picks up the bag with the canned stew and the cake and follows them down the hall.

“They’re not wrong, you know,” Zhenya says. Her face is tired, but full of life. Snap a photo of her right now and it’d rack up a ton of likes. Kira isn’t like that. She can’t remember if she ever was.

“Stop it. My selfies would give people nightmares.”

“No, seriously, you’ve got what it takes, chérie. You’ve just gotten too… closed off. Since May, maybe. Or even before that.”

Kira gives a sharp shrug and snaps:

“I’m not closed off. I just don’t give pieces of myself away for free. Last I checked, that wasn’t against the law.”

Zhenya says nothing. Half a minute later, with a touch of melodrama, she says, “Suit yourself.”

Kira feels a twinge of guilt — she snapped too hard, lashed out for no reason. But she doesn’t say anything.

Two 10th graders are sitting on the windowsill by the exit, watching Reels set to “Ya kalendar perevernu…” (“I’ll Turn the Calendar Over…”) and laughing their heads off. One has a backpack doodled all over with correction fluid; the other squints at the screen.

“That joke was already old before I even graduated high school,” Kira mutters. “I’d confiscate their phones just for that. Not to mention they’re not even supposed to be using them.”

“Oh, come on, they’re not in class. Let them sit there.”

Zhenya laughs at how wound up she is, and Kira tries to convince herself Zhenya isn’t laughing at her.

“Kira, it’s just one day. We can put up with it.”

“So many wonderful performers out there, and the only one who goes viral is this bearded asshole,” Kira mutters.

“And who’s wonderful? Shaman?”

“Why not?” Kira shoots back. “He’s got a great voice, he knows how to carry himself onstage. He actually knows music, unlike all these clowns.”

“Kir, come on, he’s cringe.”

“What’s cringe about him? He’s inspiring. He’s got a trained voice. Meanwhile you listen to that Mendes of yours and don’t even understand the lyrics.”

“Jeez, that’s totally different!”

The boys carry the boxes outside. The air is warm, still holding on to summer. Kira wants to unbutton her blouse — the one with the Yunarmiya youth cadet pin on it — but checks the impulse. Neither the time nor the place. Standing on the front steps is Principal Stepanidze, with her towering burgundy hairdo, sunglasses, and black suit — it’s hot out. Why is she all decked out like that? Then again, she’s always like that. Maybe she doesn’t own anything else. Which is nonsense, of course — she must, or maybe she has a whole closet full of those identical black suits, like the agents in “Men in Black.” Stepanidze is also two heads shorter than they are, yet her whole demeanor makes it clear that she isn’t short — Kira and Zhenya are just overgrown.

“Quite a haul you’ve got there, ladies,” Stepanidze says with a grunt, watching the boys wrestle with the dolly. “Though we collected rather more supplies in the spring, so to speak.”

“That’s all on the parents,” Zhenya jumps in. “Zinaida Robertovna, I swear, in every single homeroom period we—”

“I’ve already put the posts up on our social media, Zinaida Robertovna,” Kira cuts in. “And filed the report in the district group. They said the guys at the front are waiting for the shipment and any help counts. As you said yourself, we’re not chasing numbers.”

“It’s fall, after all — we only just celebrated the first day of school on September 1,” Zhenya adds. “We’ll collect more next time, don’t worry! How have you been feeling?”

Stepanidze responds with a string of interjections expressing profound dissatisfaction with how things are going, along with some appreciation for Zhenya’s concern.

“Well, fair enough,” Stepanidze says, turning her attention to Kira and looking her up and down as if inspecting merchandise. “I see you’re back on your feet? Glad to see you’re coping, so to speak.”

“I’ve recovered,” Kira says. A muffled voice on the other side of the door, a fist pounding on the wooden frame, rattling the handle. Kira has locked herself in; Kira is sitting deep in the bathtub, immersed in something green and red that isn’t water, her nose buried in her knees, slowly, very slowly emptying out. “Everything’s fine, Zinaida Robertovna. Thank you for asking.”

“Well, mind you keep it that way,” Stepanidze says, narrowing her eyes. “Good for you for not letting yourself fall apart. I’m glad you’re fit to work. Because on our teaching staff, alas and alack, every single person counts. Have you let Alexander Dmitriyevich know you’re sending the shipment?”

Alexander Dmitriyevich — A.D. for short — is the deputy mayor; he stays in touch with the 777th and coordinates Kira’s shipments so that everything gets where it’s supposed to go and doesn’t get pilfered along the way.

“Of course. Though we never make any major decisions without you!”

“See that you don’t,” Stepanidze says with a smirk.

Pleasant warmth rises from the asphalt. A flag flutters in the breeze. The wind plays with the striped polyester, drawing a whisper from it. None of this is for nothing, the flag whispers. The care packages, the social media posts, the tight-lipped principal… At least it isn’t for nothing.

“She doesn’t like you much,” Zhenya says, nudging Kira with her elbow after they send the boys home and head over to meet the truck driver.

“She thinks I’m too big for my britches,” Kira snorts. “As if giving a shit about what’s happening in this country means you have to have an angle.”

“Well, isn’t that how it is for most people? Look how much money it takes to get people to sign up to fight.”

“Not everything comes down to money,” Kira snaps. “Some people do it for the money, and some people just care.”

By the truck, the driver greets them — a rosy-cheeked man in work overalls and a striped sailor’s shirt. He briskly grabs the boxes and heaves them into the back. A second guy, younger, wearing socks with flip-flops, catches them up top with one hand while holding his phone in the other. Nobody bothers to count the boxes. There’s no inventory, no shipping paperwork, and nobody asks for a signature. Kira catches herself feeling relieved that she doesn’t have to mess with paperwork.

The twine snaps on one of the boxes right in the driver’s hands, and the box hits the asphalt with a sad thud. Cans of stew and fish go rolling around their feet; the scraping of tin drowns out Kira’s cursing. Along with the cans, the bag with the cake slides out of the box.

“What’s this now? A Moskva cake. ‘For our defenders.’ Girls, are you serious? This thing won’t even make it to Rostov!”

“The kids brought it,” Zhenya says, looking worried. “We couldn’t just throw it out. Why, is that a problem?”

“Well, do you mind if we take it off your hands, then?” the driver says after a beat. “Seriously, why let it go to waste when… I mean, it really won’t survive the trip…”

Kira frowns, while Zhenya relaxes.

“Take it, take it, of course! Thank you so much.”

“I’ll grab a little stew too, then,” the younger guy says, and without waiting for permission, he starts stuffing cans into his pockets.

“Hold on — have you lost your mind?!”

Kira snatches the bulging bag with the cake out of the driver’s hands, then wrests the canned stew away from the stunned younger guy, puts it all back in the box, and ties the whole thing up neatly with twine. She can feel their hostile stares on her, and she doesn’t care. She shoves the box deep into the back of the truck so it won’t get crushed, then hops down.

“Some thanks for our hard work,” the driver grumbles as he pulls the tarp over the bed, not looking at the two women.

“Helping the people on the front lines who are defending our country is all the thanks you need,” Kira says dryly. “That’s the highest reward there is.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure,” the second guy mutters, though he leaves it at that and climbs into the cab beside the driver.

The truck pulls away, leaving them in a cloud of gray exhaust. Kira and Zhenya head back inside to teach their classes.

“Did I overdo it?”

“I don’t know.” Zhenya shrugs, thoughtfully scrolling through the digital gradebook on her phone. “Maybe that creep really would’ve stolen the food. The first guy seemed okay, just kind of dim.” Then she switches gears: “Hey, did you get that message that went around? About student mentoring.”

“I got it,” Kira says with a nod.

“What do you think?” Over the past six months, Zhenya has gotten used to having to fish every word out of her friend like a message in a bottle from very murky water.

“I don’t know. Sounds like a lot of extra work for not much money. I’d rather tutor students preparing for Russia’s Unified State Exam — I’d make just as much. Maybe I’ll even save up for Thailand, like your little Stas, ha-ha.”

“Kira.” Zhenya stops and looks at her with concern. Kira hates getting looks like that, and she hates even more that she’s been getting them a lot lately. “Kira, are you okay?”

“Yes, Yevgenia, I’m completely fine, and you don’t need to use my first name like that. I know what my name is.”

Out of nowhere, Zhenya flings her long arms wide and wraps Kira in a hug. Zhenya smells fresh, like flowers and citrus, and next to her Kira feels like she must reek of sweat.

“My sweet little porcupine. Oh, by the way, before I forget.” Zhenya pulls out her phone.

“Zhenya, not right now.”

“No, wait, it’s important. Stepanidze just forwarded me a message from Alexander Dmitriyevich.” She opens the chat and holds up the message from A.D. — long and packed with emojis, and Kira isn’t sure which of those two things surprises her more.

“Whoa.”

“Yeah. They’re setting up a relief fund for the soldiers. It’s a brigade from our region, so they’re raising money for it — gonna buy first-aid kits, body armor, stuff like that. A good cause, basically. He says if we collect the money from the parents, they won’t have to dock it from our paychecks. And they’ll even throw in a bonus on top for volunteering and youth outreach.”

“That’s great. I’ll just need to get the word out to my sixth and eighth graders.”

“Thing is, I don’t know. We literally just collected all this food and socks and stuff from the parents, begging them to bring things in. And now we’re hitting them up for cash, too.”

“It’s fine, I think everyone can spare 200 rubles for a good cause,” Kira replies. “We’ll figure the rest out as we go.”

“Not every family has spare cash, you know…”

“The guys on the front lines don’t even have that,” Kira says. “Have you seen the conditions they’re living in out there? It’s pure filth, they don’t have warm clothes, men are freezing. How is that okay? The fucking Defense Ministry only knows how to steal, while ordinary guys are out there dying for nothing, getting no sleep, eating whatever they can scrounge, roasting rats…” She catches herself, realizing she’s gone too far. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine. No, no, you’re right, I get it.” And the smile returns to Zhenya’s face. “Well, I’ve gotta run! Ciao! Don’t forget your stuff in my classroom, pleeease.”

Kira rolls her eyes at the affected English, but Zhenya is already gone. Lightly, effortlessly, as if Kira’s outburst a second ago never even happened.

Kira opens the parents’ group chat and spots a notification. She taps it, jumps to the school’s public page, and sees a comment under the photo of the aid boxes.

“DAMN YOU ALL TO HELL WITH YOUR WAR AND YOUR LOOTING OF RUSSIA!! WHILE YOU SEND KIDS TO THE SLAUGHTER, FAT-CATS LIVING IT UP…”

Kira starts furiously jabbing at the screen, then stops. Takes a deep breath in, lets it out. Counts to 10, the way her brother taught her — so she doesn’t blow up, doesn’t say something stupid, doesn’t feed the hollowness inside her that’s clawing to get out, wanting to swallow everything whole. Kira counts. Five, six. Eight. Okay, now.

She deletes the comment and blocks the user.

Kira shoves the phone into her pocket and heads back to Zhenya’s classroom as the bell blares. Without Zhenya’s flats and her silly stories, the room feels dead. On the wall, a badly painted Pushkin curls his lip; on the windowsill, a gray-headed female sparrow stares at a verb conjugation chart. Getting ready to teach her chicks. She memorizes the rule and flutters back out into the Indian summer.

The half-finished mug of mint tea is still sitting on the desk. Kira takes a tentative sip — it’s cooled off enough, it won’t burn her — and then takes two more greedy gulps. Something catches the corner of her eye and pulls her attention away: a forgotten box sitting in the corner of the classroom. They must have set it aside to keep it out of the way and forgotten all about it.

Kira drops into Zhenya’s chair, buries her head in her hands, and sobs. Then come the tears.

Out in the hall, doors slam and footsteps pound past. Kira wipes away the tears, pours the rest of the tea down the sink, and tosses the tea bag into the trash. In 10 minutes, she’ll walk into her classroom, lay out the notebooks, pull up her slideshow — and everything will be in order again. None of it is for nothing.