[ The poor man. For what’s hardly the first time, a twinge of sympathy for Konstantin tugs at his heart—he can’t imagine being a cosmonaut, a Hero of the Soviet Union, and suddenly being reduced to such a life. It would be a sort of death—of the self, of one’s life before.

‘On the other side of the glass,’ he says, like he’s some sort of caged animal—and he is, at the root of it. Caged in this cabin, caged by his newfound physical limitations, caged by the scientists at the experimental facility. He’s glad for this project; hopefully, it will be a distraction from his confinement, an escape of sorts—and there will be many things Konstantin can do to tend the flock once it’s established, critically important but not overly physically demanding. It will be good for him; it’ll give him something to do. ]

Don’t feel bad. You’re hard at work inside.

[ Vasiliy comes to a stop before the skeleton of the coop, where the fenceposts lean against the side of the cabin and various bits of salvage have been stacked: corrugated metal, chickenwire, boards of varying sizes. On the ground, the intended perimeter of the pen has been outlined in the snow, the position of each fencepost marked with an X. Vasiliy gestures. ]

This is the border for their pen, and they’ll have a coop on that side. We’ll drive in the stakes here and then string together the fence. I’m going to put fencing on the top to keep hawks and owls out.

[ Vasiliy doesn’t quite know what to say when he draws the comparison they’ve both probably been aware of since this began, so he just mirrors the quiet chuckle, smiling with good humor.

When they come to a stop Konstantin puts his hands on his hips and surveys what he’s set up so far: despite his having proposed this and taken care of most of the groundwork, there’s still a part of him that wonders what Kostya thinks of his work, if he thinks he’s good at this. It’s ridiculous and he knows it. ]

I’ll start the kettle. Don’t do anything yet, the ground’s frozen solid. You’ll break the post before you get anywhere.

[ Or hurt himself in his overexertion, but he doesn’t say that part. Konstantin's already well aware of his own limitations. ]

[ He's boyish, playful and charming, putting on a show but clearly genuinely enjoying himself—it's difficult to comprehend how someone like this was single even without the added elements of his profession and rank and high honors bestowed upon him.

It's quite a few minutes before he does return; the water here has quite a cold starting point. So much so that he fills a pot and starts it on the same burner before stepping outside, knowing it will take a while to heat up. ]

Alright! We have it.

[ He pours over the x, watching quite a bit of steam rise from the ground as soon as it makes contact: the soil is wet, no longer frozen, but it occurs to him that it's so cold that all of the heat of the water was probably used up just in thawing the surface layer. He frowns visibly—this may not work. ]

Try it?

[ It’s clear, the effect the creature has had on his body—the beginnings of muscular atrophy, a dramatic change from what he must be used to being able to do as a cosmonaut inhabiting a perfected body. There’s a deep twinge of sympathy, there; he can’t imagine what it would feel like to go from his own current physical condition to something so much weaker, unable to do much without help.

His eyes crinkle with a smile at the joke and he shakes his head. ]

Nonsense! 39 is not old. [ Certainly not on him... ] You aren’t even 40 yet. The ground’s just frozen solid. Nobody could get that in.

[ He sets the teapot down on a stump and folds his arms, regarding the perimeter drawn in the snow again with a thoughtful frown. ]

If we can’t drive in a post, though, a fox can’t dig under the fence. Maybe we can do something aboveground. Rocks, maybe. Or we could move something solid and use it for a post. [ It would, of course, have to be himself, not a we, but. ] You could string the fence while I make the posts. Someone has to hold it in place while it’s attached to the posts too.