The berry juice had washed off his face, and he didn’t find any new berries. He swung at the mosquitoes with full force — a scattering of red dots were left on his palm — that meant there was a dozen on him at once.
A new myriad replaced them.
The little man didn’t have much left. After a half an hour, he barely croaked. Once in a while the foreman encouraged him with the bludgeon.
They brought lunch; the little man, staring at the food, screamed about the lazy bum and parasite with his remaining strength and was about to go get his share, but the foreman didn’t understand what he was on about.
“Where you goin’, singing flea? Where you goin’?” He yelled. “You think you deserve to eat? What sort of a meal for the lazy bum? A thousand extra times!”
Artiom didn’t even look to see what wa
