As the train nears the station, they get up and crush against the windows, press their faces to the panes or rush to squeeze up against the doors, and then jostle for more room, crane to see something outside, limbs tangled and necks outstretched as though there wasn’t enough air, a mass of squid—but it’s strange, if they get out to smoke on the platform or stretch their legs they never stray very far, stay clumped together in front of the steps—a herd—and shrug when people ask where they’re headed: they’ve been told Krasnoyarsk and Barnaoul, they’ve been told Chita, but it always comes down
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