“Hey! You m**********g over there?” Someone asked and pulled down the blanket. Artiom tried to catch the fabric with his teeth and couldn’t, and so fell back against the headboard of the couch.
“Oh,” said the person who had pulled down the blanket, evidently from the gangsters, “That’s quite a mug. Why didn’t you wash it, at least? You’re all bloody… Got a cigarette?”
“No.” Artiom didn’t so much say it as gasp it out.
The sick people started to get active, rising up from their couches. The clang of vats of food was audible.
Artiom suddenly got up, licking his lips. The nurse that had taken his temperature brought Artiom’s bag. He rummaged around and found a bowl.
He figured that Vasilii Petrovich had put the bowl in. Artiom for sure hadn’t put it in himself; he had thrown it on his bu
