Yesterday I heard something that sounded like rocks being unloaded from a dump truck. I stepped outside to take a look. Just across the road, a man was digging in a vegetable patch with a sharp stick instead of a shovel. The laundry hanging on the line had turned mostly to rags long ago. A woman appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron. We watched as foxes and wolves trotted into town to play with the children. That’s why I need to consult those people who survived by eating weeds and even talk proudly about it. We could hear laughter. And then, just as suddenly, we couldn’t hear it anymore.