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The Fish

Earlier today, an old Ukrainian man came to my door. He arrived in an old, black hatchback. He was short, a thick man, his hair cut short and a mix of silver and grey. He wore heavy clothes, for it was cold, and raining. In his hand he carried a red bucket with plastic containers.

"Hi there," he said when I opened the door. "I'm here for the fish."

After a few moments, we agreed that he had the wrong address.