The drunken mother kicked her son out at night for her lover.

At first, I thought it was a joke. But then the police arrived. It was 2:30 in the morning. In the fridge, there was only light; two liters of beer in my system were no longer a source of joy, and Saturday on the horizon seemed like a compelling argument for another liter, preferably unfiltered. The decision was made quickly and silently. I pulled on my jacket, shoved my feet into my sneakers, checked whether the stove was off — a habit leftover from the nineties — and went outside. At the 24-hour store, neatly wedged between two panel buildings, a kid greeted me. About ten or twelve years old. Thin, in a puffy jacket, with a pompom on his hat. This type usually blends into the landscape during the daytime, but now — at half-past two in the morning — he stood out like salt from a sugar bowl.

I approached."Hey, what are you doing here? It's night. Where are your parents?"He hesitated, lowered his eyes, and mumbled something unintelligible. I squatted down."Seriously, buddy. Where are yours? Mom, Dad? Who sent you here?"Uncle Michael came to see Mom... They were drinking. And kissing... They said — Go play outside."At that moment, I felt a sudden pang of concern. At that moment, something clicked inside me. Not a crack, no. A metallic 'ting' — like from a spring in a cheap chair. I didn't even immediately understand what had happened. Then, I understood. And I wanted to hit someone. But the only one nearby was this boy. Fortunately, a couple of hours earlier, I had talked to a friend from the police. He was on duty.

I called. Explained. Played it safe — I had read stories on the internet about how good people were accused of bad intentions. It's better to let them sort it out in uniform. They promised to arrive in about twenty minutes. While we waited, I sat on the curb, the boy stood next to me, drooping like a plantain after the rain. Once he yawned so long that my jaw tightened. Then they arrived — a 'seven,' three of them. They got out, talked to the kid, and went to his house. He had the key. We went up to the sixth floor. The intercom beeped, and the elevator got stuck, as it usually does in such places.

We stood at the door. One ring, two, three. Behind the door — first silence, then a rasp: — Who the f***? — Police. Open up. — I didn't call anyone. Open the door anyway. A woman opened the door, someone I honestly did not expect to see even in nightmares. Her hair was the color of 'forgotten dye', her gaze empty like a winter 'superchat' kiosk, a robe on her bare body, and the air was thick with stale alcohol that a solvent factory would envy. The apartment had a standard Soviet makeover: a fringed sofa, wallpaper weary with time. On the couch was a man, apparently Uncle Michael. He was snoring so loudly that it sounded like he was chewing on bricks out loud. The woman, slightly sobering up, remembered the child and mumbled something about him having gone to sleep on his own.

Of course, he did. How else could it be? The boy had been standing behind me all this time. Quiet. He almost wasn't breathing. He looked like a kitten that had been thrown out of a window and still hadn't realized it had survived. I looked at him. Then, at my acquaintance. - Can he stay the night with you? - Are you out of your mind? - was the reply. So I crouched down, looking the boy in the eyes: - Will you come with me? Sleep, eat. In the morning, to the station. They'll sort it out there. He was silent. - If you don’t want to, you’ll stay.

You will stay. Just say so. Or nod. He nodded. The 'mother' herself mumbled that she would come in the morning. Mainly after she was politely explained that otherwise, she might not come — if she was processed correctly. Her eyes became fish-like, and she fell silent. We left. On the way, the boy fell asleep on my shoulder. At home, I reheated the potatoes with chicken. He ate half of the frying pan and drank two glasses of milk. Then he lay down on the couch. At his feet was my red cat, who, judging by his face, liked it no more than I like waiting in line at the clinic.

I spread out on the floor. I'm used to it. In the army, I slept like that too. I fell asleep thinking: I could have just walked by. I could have said — 'it's not my business.' I could have thought that someone else would figure it out. But, as practice shows, no one else ever figures it out. It's always you. And if you don’t sort it out, no one will. That's how I got an unexpected night guest. Tomorrow we will get up early. We'll go to the station. And then, as the people in uniform and with signing rights decide. I just wanted a beer. That's how it is.