For breakfast the old man Arkadi has a bowl of sugared milk and vodka thickened with pieces of bread and lard. He picks up the bowl with both hands, his face disappearing between them as he drinks. He would like to have a ring on one of his fingers, he thinks, for the way it would go clink against things: a way of limiting or giving form to the world. Except for the sound of him slurping the milk, the kitchen is quiet. Not long until the pigs will start demanding to be fed. On the wall to the left of the stove, next to an image of Christ and some photographs of his parents, hangs the sleeve for Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. He has put it inside a frame Vartan gave him, golden and decorated with a number of angelfish gazing around in all directions. They are the watchers, Vartan said when he presented the gift. Arkadi usually spends this last 15 minutes of sunrise scrutinizing the bunched-together faces on the sleeve. He has crossed out that of Karl Marx, the only one he recognized, but after that he stuck a photograph of his deceased wife’s face on top. He looks at her. They had never been able to afford the wedding ring.