A little girl came into the café, clad in nothing but a white although dirty and torn up plain sleeveless shirt. She was so thin I could count her every bone and so blueishly pale she was almost transparent. She could hardly move her numb bare feet as she approached me, all shivering and mumbling of how cold the weather was. She handed me a crumpled bill, covered in snowflakes that were not melting on her skin.
“Ice-cream please”, she said with a distinct accent.
I gave her what she wanted and the girl went outside to eat it.
Russians…