Raskolnikov is hard at work gathering every candle in the house, which is unfortunately less than he’d hoped. He supposes he should be lucky they have any at all, what with how reliant the Americans are on their electricity. At least they’ll have light — the existence of flashlights hasn’t even crossed his mind — and some measure of heat, though.

He’s setting down his findings in the living room when he hears a knock at the door. One of the neighbors, probably. With the tired shuffle of a man who would rather be doing anything else, he makes his way to the door, only to see that his “wife” has already answered it. It’s tempting to let her handle it, but curiosity gets the better of him, so he peers out at the visitor — visitors, plural — from behind Agathe, waiting for them to say something.