Grocery shopping isn’t exactly Raskolnikov’s idea of a pleasant afternoon activity. It’s bad enough that he has to be out and about, surrounded by the American locals that aren’t capable of rational thought. It’s even worse that he has to be in this crowded store with glaring lights and strange foreign food. Even the sheer variety of things to eat leaves him reeling. The freezers have at least ten different types of meat alone!

He isn’t sure exactly what he should be buying, so he puts anything that looks familiar into the little wheeled cart the shoppers use to transport their goods. Cabbage, sliced bread, potatoes…a hearty meal. Much more than he’d been used to back home in Russia. Cart in front of him, he’s walking down one of the isles lined with freezers when he sees some sausages labeled as хот-доги. Those would go well with the potatoes, he thinks, and brushes past a woman standing in the way so he can grab a few packets.

There’s something strange about the woman, though. A tenseness in her body, a faraway look in her eyes. It’s a familiar expression, but not one he’s used to seeing on the townspeople. That piques his curiosity, and almost against his will, he sets the sausages in his cart and turns to her.

“Are you quite alright?”