Irina takes a bite. For a second, she swears she hears Nicolae Ceaușescu shouting a recipe for cabbage rolls with dignity , and then—silence. Just the crickets. Just the wind.
This is the (The Library of Unpublished Manuscripts).
Irina touches her own arm, relieved to still be solid. “So what do you do with them?”
Outside, the fog thickens. A dog howls. Matei hands Irina a greasy paper bag. Inside is a single mici —a grilled sausage roll.