Stepan released one of his proven self-assured smiles on his face and reached out for the envelope. The dean of the faculty, a short, elderly Robert Emmanuilovich Lorsky, with a disorderly gray hair, a sharp nose, and horn-rimmed glasses with bluish glass, chuckled ironically:
- You, young man, are wonderful in your self-confidence. Did anyone tell you that?
"You said it yourself," the guy replied, looking doubtfully at the envelopes laid out on the professor's table. Again the old man began to freak out. Yesterday, at the last lecture on the basics of social medicine, Lorsky complacently informed their group that this summer, all second-year students will practice. Stepan, who had been preparing for this from the first day of school, almost cried out with joy.
He chose the specialty of "social worker", one might say, at the call of his heart. I could never calmly walk past an old woman looking with some doom at a dilapidated staircase, or not help a disabled person get on a bus. When, in the eleventh grade, Moroz found out that a branch of the State Institute of Social Technologies had appeared in his city, he immediately firmly decided that he would submit documents to him. Friends for a long time who twisted their fingers to their temples, who just shrugged their shoulders. Only Irka Verevkina supported me, a classmate, and a neighbor on the staircase. Their families have been friends at home for many years, so to speak. And the children have been inseparable since kindergarten, which they also went to together. There was, however, one more understanding - Slavik Tyulenev, also a classmate. He lived with his mother and a very old grandmother. And he knew firsthand what it was like to be a helpless person in a house. It was Slavik who, having found out about Moroz's plans, said the main words that finally convinced Stepan to choose his future profession: "You visited us and saw my grandmother. Do you know how we take care of her ... And how many such lonely people? Well done, Morse. " So Stepan was called all school years. The stress in his last name, Moroz, fell on the first "o". And more than once misunderstandings arose, especially in the first year of school. Seven-year-old Styopka defended his name to the teachers almost to tears. As a result, the whole school remembered how to pronounce it correctly. But gradually the guys in the class changed the difficult word into a nickname. And soon the teachers began to call among themselves the little stubborn brown-haired man by the name of the inventor of the outdated, but world-famous Morse code.
By the end of school, Stepan had turned into a strong guy of average height and athletic build. He loved physical education and did not miss it. True, when the physical education instructor gave a hint about a career in sports, once and for all he firmly dotted the "e": he is not interested. Until the end of the last year at school, the guy continued to run, pull up, and all that is almost better than all the same age. And there the school ended, the Unified State Exam flew by calmly, the submission of documents to the institute also passed without any special overlays. Stepan managed to get points to one of the five budget places given to the branch by the parent university. Because of this, the teachers immediately began to test the guy for knowledge and were satisfied. The guy could not boast of deep knowledge of school subjects, but he covered the gaps in knowledge with impenetrable aplomb, multiplied by natural charm. So he unlearned two courses, dreaming of the day when he can finally start helping people who are unable to take care of themselves. And now that day has practically come.
Stepan with a confident movement took from the table the first envelope that came across, not spoiled by any inscriptions and pictures. Lorsky warned yesterday:
- In social services, it is not customary to appoint a single service. This is a great luxury, young people.
The professor looked at the audience over horn-rimmed glasses, pursed his lips, and continued:
- But they went to meet us. The City Home Services has agreed to send you to practice on the terms and conditions required by our institute. One student - one served. I saw a list of those in need of your help. They are all different people, with different characters and destinies. But they have one thing in common - they live alone. With some it will be difficult, I would even say very difficult. Hope you can understand why?
The boys and girls in the audience made a dull noise. Robert Emmanuilovich nodded, listening to the voices, and said:
- Well done. This will be your first practice, on which a lot depends. And I'm not talking about grades. During these two weeks, the main question will be decided - will you stay in the profession or not. Not everyone can handle what you are about to face. It will be both funny and scary. And I, so that later they would not say that I have favorites and that I slipped the ward easier and more pleasant to someone, I decided to give fate a chance.
The girls and boys quieted down, puzzled. The professor suddenly smiled maliciously:
- Tomorrow at the dean's office you will choose your own pig in a poke. There should be no objections or protests. Each of you will take an envelope from my desk, open it in front of me and read the name out loud. I will mark it in the journal and issue a referral. Well, for personal matters you will have to visit OSOND *.
After the end of the couple, Stepan rushed home to tell his mother about the dean's new quirk and about his joy. They talked half the night, interrupted by the grumbling of a sleepy father, who sometimes went out to the kitchen to drink water. And now Stepan Moroz, a man of nineteen years of age, a future social worker, was holding an envelope in his hand and was preparing to step into the pool. He glanced at the professor, noticed a laugh in his watery gray-blue eyes, and resolutely tore open the thick paper. Pulling out a sheet of printed text, the student stared at the lines with eager interest and read:
- Svyatoslav Bekhterev, twenty-eight years old, blind, lives alone. He lost his sight two years ago as a result of a car accident. Before the accident, I was professionally engaged in photography ...
Stepan's voice faltered. The guy seemed to feel the horror of a person unknown to him, accustomed to seeing the world in all its diversity, and having lost this gift in a terrible split second. The professor thoughtfully put a tick in his sheet, where there was a list of the names of those to whom young people were put on practice. Lorsky looked at one of his best students with incomprehensible sympathy and said:
"I'm even glad that you got this case, young man.
- Why? - Stepan was puzzled.
- Learn from a personal file. And it seems to me that you can handle it, - the dean nodded to his thoughts, climbed into an inconspicuous daddy from the edge of the table, took out the official paper of the institute with seals and signatures, and handed it to the guy:
- This is the direction to the city OSOND. Your practice will begin on June 18th. Pass the last exam, rest for a week ... And with God, as they say.
Stepan, who did not understand anything, left the dean's office, said goodbye to the girls of his group, in which there were only three guys, including Moroz, and went to the stairs leading to the first floor of the university.
The street greeted him with the brightness of the sun, the smells of heated asphalt and dust, as well as the belligerent chirping of raging sparrows trying to divide the bush near the entrance to the institute. It was the second day of June outside. Ahead was the summer, exams, and something completely new in the guy's life. Stepan looked at the blue sky swollen with a neat cloud, ran his hand through his short-cropped hair, turned his gaze to the people hurrying somewhere along the sidewalk, and moved towards the bus stop.
After the usual twenty-two minutes, Stepan got out of the yellow "Buratinovoz" at his native stop. It was another eleven minutes to go to the house, past his former kindergarten, the old boiler room, and a long line of five-story buildings. This part of the city was built during the Brezhnev era and according to Khrushchev's projects. So the area was so provincial and buried in the greenery of trees planted along the road that Stepan still did not believe how this cute simplicity could be combined with flocks of petty hooligans. However, lovers of sunflower seeds and fundraising "for greening the moon" somehow never touched the strong guy. And Stepan was not going to think about the reasons for this. He moved down the sidewalk towards his house. But two minutes later, having already passed the garden and almost passed the boiler room, he stopped and listened. A strange sound came again from somewhere above. As if a dog was barking somewhere over the student. The guy lifted his head in complete disbelief. But "kabyzdoh" (if you're dead - so in Russia they sometimes call dogs running free, there is no aggression in a combination of words, they say it with a smile, just such a little strange joke) was observed in the sky. But the barking continued. As if an invisible dog sensed that he had been heard and was now trying to get through. Stepan carefully examined the territory of the boiler room through a chain-link fence. And the barking continued, filling Styopa with anxiety. The guy's gaze settled on a strange thing tied to a ladder stretched along a tall pipe. It was at this moment that the thing jerked and a new portion of barking flew to the student.
- Here are the bitches! - Stepan breathed out almost with resentment. He almost ran to the gate of the boiler room, rushed past a puzzled locksmith who was cleaning some part of the oil boiler with a rag, and, not sparing his clothes, climbed the rusty steps, clinging back to the protective frame of the stairs, to the mysterious thing. It turned out to be a square basket with a lid tightly screwed to it. With difficulty untied the prey, Stepan went downstairs. It was as if something had gone mad inside the basket, which almost made the student go deaf and dropped his load. The locksmith ran up, puzzled, threw up his hands:
- And I didn't notice how they put it here. Was inside, I guess. I kept thinking where it barks and where.
- Do you have any nippers? - asked Styopa. He did not even think to be indignant. The main thing is that the inhabitant of the basket still called the savior. The locksmith rummaged in the pockets of his overalls, took out the side cutters, and with one click cut three strings of wire that held the lid on the basket, from the depths of which the nose familiar to Stepan immediately poked out. Max, who had worked in the boiler room for many years and knew all the inhabitants of the street, grumbled in annoyance:
- Well, Startsev, already Moti's dog has almost finished it off. Let the moped appear again to fix it ...
Valentin Startsev was the star of the area. The main hooligan and entertainer, so to speak. Stepan released Macaron from the basket, a creature of the yard breed, which had short legs, brown color, and a tail - a fan. The short-haired dog shook himself, a couple of times more menacingly expressed his opinion about some people, and rushed through the gate. Stepan knew that Macaron would find his way to the hostess and would not stick his head on the road under any pretext, so he did not worry. He asked Max:
- So this is Valkа's work?
- Well, only he came here with his own, - the locksmith nodded.
Stepan sighed, brushed off the rust from his blue jeans, realizing that this would not help much, and said, looking with a smile at the ginger kitten rolling out of the boiler room gate into the courtyard:
- Well, Valik, wait ... You should not be just a "lordship", but a real "hi lordship".
Max whinnied, scaring away the favorite of the entire boiler room - only a red tail flashed under the gate of a one-story building. The day around warmed the dusty street, dissolving everything bad in the blue. The premonition of something wonderful in the guy's heart did not even think to disappear.
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*OSOND - Department of Social Services to the Population at Home.