There had been 228 creations, and Kirill was still unable to silence the herd in his head.
. . . Kirill . . .
. . . Kirill . . .
. . . Kirill . . .
He was hunkered down under the table, antlers lowered in the tight space, the laptop warming his legs as he followed the news. He sometimes snuck a glance at the does from beneath the tablecloth; human-digited feet and linoleum-tapping hooves flitted past him. We go, we go, they murmured, picking out the artificial skins, detergent-scented skirts and pineapple-print shirts, that would leave their stomachs covered in rashes by the evening. Gamboling about, clinging to one another, they got dressed. One of them—Réka?—was trying to pull a sweatshirt on over her legs. Another—Virág?—had her shoes on the wrong feet.
. . . come with us . . .
. . . we go to the tourists . . .
