When Igor's cell phone rings, I can't help but jump in the seat in surprise. Too much stress.

“Understood,” says this fireproof cabinet and starts the engine.

What about Edgar? I ask, clinging to the handles of the bag so that my fingers turn white.

Igor is silent, and then slowly, as if from an almost empty tube of toothpaste, squeezes out the words.

- There's an accident. Can't drive.

My chest is cold. Panic. Foolish and unsubstantiated. But my heart is beating like it's been locked in a cage. It probably is, but now this comparison resembles a life prison.

- He is OK?

Pause.

- I called -...