Cyril struggled out of the arms of sleeping Clara, dressed, and left the room. He left a basket of herbs and a book of debtors, hoping to sort it later.

When he left the room, he found himself in a short corridor. A kerosene lamp hung on the wall, illuminating the passage. At the other end of the corridor, a large window let in the sunlight. Cyril counted a total of five rooms.

Does anyone live here? He thought as he reached the large window and went down the stairs. Where is everyone?

The large room, filled with tables, was empty at this time. Only Freya crawled between the tables, rubbing the floor. Tables and chairs protruded legs up, covering the tables with seats that smelled of the guests' asses. Cyril didn't see the bartender behind the counter, but he heard someone chopping meat in the kitchen.

He walked over to Freya, lowered the chair, and sat down more comfortably.

"Do you sleep at all?" He asked, looking at her back.

Freya crawled on all fours, using a dry brush to wipe the spittle and spilled beer off the floor. Cyril noticed dried vomit under the next table and grimaced. Freya worked silently with the brush.

"I don't know why you're angry." He said. "We didn't make any promises to each other."

Freya continued to crawl on all fours, as if unaware that he was there. This was getting annoying. The sight of her bent back caused a twofold feeling. On the one hand, he felt superior and wanted to give orders, as he had managed to do the previous morning. On the other hand, he felt sorry for the woman.

"Freya, please get up." He said quietly, not wanting to spoil his high spirits.

"I'm working." Freya said, still scrubbing the floor. "Or do you want to help me?"

She turned her head and flashed him a sardonic smile. Cyril felt uneasy.

Why is she so full of poison?

"Yes." He said. "As I helped you with the toilet."

Freya stood up, blew a lock of hair from her forehead, and nodded. The curiosity returned to her face.

"Will you tell me how you did it?" She asked in a softer tone.

"Let's keep this a secret, okay? I have a feeling that your wish will come true."

Freya put the brush in the bucket with the dustpan and went to the toilet to empty the bucket of dry dirt. Halfway there, she turned. The emptiness in her eyes finally disappeared and Freya smiled slightly.

"Thank you." She said. "This place is all we have."

Cyril didn't answer, just smiled, got up from the table, and went to the kitchen. He turned behind the bar, passed a large beer barrel from which Dyck was pouring for the guests, and entered a doorless doorway hung with ribbons.

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The sharp smell of spices and burning wood hit his nostrils. There was a frying pan on a small stove where chunks of meat were being fried in oil. The huge bartender was stirring the meat with a wooden spatula.

"Good morning, boss." Cyril said. "How's the girl?"

"Morning. She's in my bedroom." Dyck said, not looking up from cooking. "Behind that door. I wanted to talk to you about the menu."

Cyril shook his head, looking over his boss's shoulder to smell the roast meat.

"First we need to get clean. Where do you get water for cooking and cleaning?"

Dyсk turned over a piece of meat, showing a crisp crust.

"We buy water from the Clean Heel clan and bring it in barrels. There aren't many guests now and we have to save money." He said in a heavy voice. "That's why there's no water for washing."

"That's lousy."

"I saw the toilet" Dyck added and turned to look Cyril in the face. "Was it your handiwork?"

"Not literally, but yes." Cyril smiled.

Dyck turned over the second piece of meat and was silent again. Cyril went to a simple door at the other end of the kitchen and started to knock, but stopped.

I don't think I should talk to her again. Cyril thought. If she sees me as a friend, it will be painful for her to break up later.

He turned to the bartender. Dyck had just removed the meat from the pan. He placed it on a large plate and placed it on a massive table. The table below was covered with plates, pots, pans, and other utensils. Dyck opened a drawer at the top of the table and took out a knife and a fork.

"About the child." Dyck said, sitting down on a sturdy stool to eat. "As I said, I'm not in the habit of prying into other people's affairs."

"Yes, I remember."

"Is she your daughter?"

"No."

"As I thought." Dyck nodded, cut off a piece of meat with a knife, put it in his mouth and began to chew.

Cyril looked around the small kitchen. In addition to the items under the table, there were several shelves on the walls with earthenware mugs, ceramic cups, and large pitchers.

"I don't know who you are, Cyril." Dyck said, when he had finished chewing. "I don't care, as long as you help me with the tavern."

"But-" Cyril guessed.

"You brought a lot of money yesterday and brought someone else's child with you."

The burly innkeeper stared at his plate as he cut a second slice.

"Do you want to hear a story or something?" Cyril didn't understand.

He stood in this kitchen, watching Dyck eat fried meat, his back pressed against the door jamb, and not understanding what he wanted from him. Even the bartender's broad back was so heavy that the room was cramped.

"No." The bartender shook his head. "I don't care where or how you got the money. I won't even ask who the child is."

"Nice, thanks, boss."

Cyril gave him a thumbs-up and looked up from the wall.

"Shall I go?"

Without waiting for an answer, he walked behind the boss and was almost out of the kitchen when Dyck finally turned around. The sturdy stool creaked under his massive body, and Dyck finished his thought.

"I don't want any trouble with the law."

The heavy eyes, the thick beard with traces of fat, and the knife in his hand spoke for themselves. If Cyril gets him in trouble and damages the tavern's reputation, Dyck will rip out his guts.

"I get it, boss, don't worry." Cyril said in a serious tone and left.

The conversation with the innkeeper left an unpleasant residue in the soul of Cyril. To regain his pleasant mood, he went to the scene of his triumph. When he entered the toilet, the fresh smell of the forest lake hit him. Cyril peered into one of the holes in the floor and saw a clean clay bottom deep below.

"It's time to take a leak." He whispered in a satisfied voice, and unbuttoned his pants.

A strong jet broke down and hit the deep bottom. Cyril relieved himself, hid his penis, buttoned his new pants, and breathed in the fresh, humid air. He turned to see once more how clean the walls and floor were.

"Gurgle, you're a fucking master." Cyril said, smiling.

Immediately, a breeze began to blow, water droplets appeared under the ceiling, and an elemental condensed from the scattered steam in the air.

[Master is incredibly kind to Gurgle.] A voice in his head said. [It was so dirty that I am now almost as strong as my father was a million years ago. I can even smell the underground water.]

"I'm glad you enjoyed eating our shit, bro. You should have seen what people did to my home world."

[What did they do, master? Is there a lot of sewage? Can I go there and become strong like my great-grandfather three million years ago?]

"They fucked it up, man." Cyril said, remembering what he'd read about plastic islands in the ocean and smoldering landfills. "About going back there. I don't even know how I got here yet. But I'm going to find out."

[I hope it's possible.] The elemental said. [You promised to show me the human world.]

"Yes, I remember my promises." Cyril answered. "You said about underground water. Is there any water around here?"

[Yes, master. There's a river right below us.]

"Excellent." Cyril said, smiling. "Can you create the same source here as in the bathhouse?"

[Master overestimates strength of Gurgle.] The elemental blew bubbles. [My father could get water, I can only feel it. But if the master can get to it, I will protect the new source.]

"So we're digging a well!" Cyril was happy. "But breakfast first!"

Cyril clapped his hands, smiled, and took another breath of fresh air as he left the toilet. The elemental swayed its water body, released a couple of bubbles, and turned into a cloud, only to disappear immediately.

The day begins wonderfully. Cyril thought as he climbed back to the room. A perfect day to die.