Finding Zina

‘Quiet! Quiet!’ shouted the chairwoman, running along the narrow, cracked but asphalted main street of the village of Makarovo. ‘Calm down! Mikhailych has arrived!’

But the crowd continued to chitchat. Mass gatherings were rare in the village, and the people were frankly starved for them. Even the Village Day, which used to be celebrated with great fanfare, had long faded away. Though, can you call an event in a village with a thousand inhabitants ‘great fanfare’?

Suddenly, a K-700, the once-famous yellow ‘Kirovec’, with wheels as tall as a person, came to a screeching halt near the crowd. So abruptly that it swayed uncertainly on its powerful front springs, nearly nosediving. The cabin door opened, and a short old man appeared, wearing a gray jacket, comfortable track pants with three stripes on the sides, galoshes with a wool lining, and an old, greasy cap. His cheeks were sunken, covered with gray stubble, and bushy eyebrows drooped over his eyes, but the gaze of his slightly squinted eyes was firm and confident.

‘Did you find Zina?’ shouted a bass voice from the crowd.

‘Yeah.’ The old man turned and shouted while descending the stairs. ‘Just give me a moment to catch my breath; Kolya drove nearly fifty.’

‘Well, I…’ that same Kolya, the tractor driver, poked his head out of the cabin from the other side. ‘People have gathered already; they’ll soon head to the city, then expect trouble…’

Mikhailych was already standing on the asphalt, lighting a cigarette. His hands trembled slightly, but years of habit showed – he struck the match on the first try, despite the wind. The crowd moved a bit closer, forming a semblance of a semicircle, with Mikhailych and the K-700 at the center. Kolya wanted to drive off, but children had already climbed onto the wheels, and he had no choice but to turn off the engine.

‘Come on, tell us, don’t keep us in suspense!’ The chairwoman placed her hand on Mikhailych’s shoulder and gently shook him. ‘Where’s Zina? When will she come back?’

Mikhailych took a deep breath, took a couple more puffs, threw the long cigarette butt on the ground, and carefully crushed it with his foot. By his appearance, it was already clear whether Zina would come back.

‘She won’t come back,’ Mikhailych said shortly and fell silent.

The crowd became unusually quiet. Gazes, previously focused on Mikhayich, turned to the ground, the tractor, the old village store, a row of stalls, and the back of the person standing in front.

— Wait a minute, Mikhayich… — the chairperson stepped back and looked intently at the old man. – Why don’t you tell us how it all happened…

— Come on, Mikhayich, tell us, don’t keep us in suspense! – shouted from the crowd. – What is she doing there, in the city? Is it about medicine, or what?

— Yes, it’s about medicine. – Mikhayich nodded and reached for another cigarette. – I’ll tell you now.

So, I arrived in the city. Where to look — who knows, but after thinking a bit — where else could a village doctor go if not to a hospital? Certainly not as a manager! (Mikhayich specifically used "manager," not the more familiar "мэнэджэр").

Well, I thought, better check the clinics. I started with the district one – after all, Zina is from the district, right? So I came in, walked around, and couldn’t find anything. They had a poster up there, like our doctors – but she wasn’t there either. While I was standing there looking at it, a nurse approached – quite young and pretty, all decked out, you know, in full battle paint. She said, "What are you looking at, old man? That poster has been up for about ten years, since the governor came; we only dust it off for New Year’s."

I asked, "Is our doctor here, dear? Her name is Zina." She replied, "No, she hasn’t been here for a long time; I would know — I’m on the schedule." And so I left, empty-handed.

Then I trudged to the city hospital. I thought I’d stand by the poster there, maybe someone would help me.

— You won’t get anything from the city folks. – Kolya's voice came from above. – If you’re dying, they won’t even come close, not even to pick your pockets.

— You're right. – Mikhayich nodded. – They don’t even have a poster there — there’s a TV hanging, with the schedule, you see. And I, as luck would have it, left my glasses at home — I only wear them for reading the newspaper. So I stood there squinting until some old woman approached. I said, "Help me, sister – I can’t see a thing; read me the names of the doctors, will you?" Well, she read — Zina wasn’t there.

I asked, "Are all the doctors here?" She said, "No, just those who are seeing patients today. She advised me — go to the information window; they know everything there. Just prepare yourself; they say they’ll be rude. Well, I replied, do I look like someone who’s afraid of a bit of scolding? And off I went.

I stood in line for half an hour – there were three of us, but the nurse at the window dashed off somewhere, the goat. When she returned, I asked, "Do you have Dr. Zina here, dear?" She started shouting about some personal data...

"Personal data?" – the chairwoman suggested.

"Yes, exactly!" – Mikhailych exclaimed happily. – "She says she won't tell me, no matter what! I almost gave up, but I decided to lie – I said, dear, Zina is my daughter, but I lost her phone, came to check on her, and was told she works in the hospital; I've been running around for two days trying to find her. But this goat wouldn't help at all."

I went outside, sat on a bench, and lit a cigarette. Just then, a little man in black uniform with an insignia that looked like a guard ran up to me. He leaned in close and said, "You can't smoke here, old man; you’ll get a fine." I couldn't take it anymore; I jumped up and yelled at him, "What do you want, kid? Picking on an old man? Don't you have anything better to do? Go work for my people, bend your back for a country that won’t remember your name, and then you can teach me!"

He turned red, started gasping – who knows, maybe from fear, or maybe he was about to hit me. He grabbed my jacket and pulled – I jumped up. He almost tore my sleeve off, the scoundrel. But he clutched on, wouldn’t let go, shaking me by the sleeve. "You’re finished now, old man," he said. "Get ready to pay the fine, or go dry bread – you’ll be sweeping the streets. Well, I thought, Mikhailych is doomed now.

"You should’ve just punched him in the face and be done with it!" – someone in the crowd shouted. – "If he’s working as a guard at the hospital, he must be a total weakling!"

"That’s what I thought!" – Mikhailych continued. – "Why should I let that thick ass get away with it? Even though I have a concussion, didn’t I drag such guys across the front in '43, tying them together like camels!"

So just as I was getting ready to hit him, someone shouted from behind – "Stop!" The guard turned around, released me – he got scared, I guess. I looked and saw that little goat from the information window running towards us. Apparently, her conscience was bothering her. And she went back to lie, just like I did earlier – "Go on, Seryozha, keep patrolling; this is my grandpa from the village, he’s a bit slow, don’t be mad."

But this interruption won't stop – no, he says, one law is for all, you come here and set your rules. I'll mark you, old man, count on it. And I don't care that he's your relative.

Of course, I don't care – says the girl. You don’t care about anyone, just like everyone else doesn’t care about you. You're a meaningless piece of something (honestly, I didn’t catch it). There’s a hospital here, doctors, people going about, why are you even here, you lackey? You wander around from morning to night, not letting mothers bring strollers inside – it’s not allowed, and they’re getting soaked in the rain. You don’t get wet, hiding inside to avoid getting your fat body wet.

The girl really got going. The security guard is shaking all over, started approaching her, raising his hands – here, I guess, an old habit kicked in. I didn’t have time to think, how I hit him in the ear, and caught him before his body hit the ground – well, like we used to do, silently. Sat him on a bench, pulled his cap down over his face – he seems to be sleeping.

And the girl stands there, smiling, not scared – good for her. Well, you really are something, I say. You lie, and don’t even blush. And you’re not afraid – since when he wakes up, will he run to complain? No, she says, he won’t run. He’s only brave with old people and nurses, until they send him away. Don’t worry, grandpa, everything will be fine.

So, she smiles, sits down next to me, and whispers quietly. What she’s whispering, I can’t understand. I asked her to speak louder – she repeated. We don’t have any Zina, she says, checked on the computer. Go to the district hospital, she says, maybe she’s there. Well, I told her – I went to the district hospital, dear, Zina isn’t there.

The girl thought for a moment, took out her phone, and started fiddling with it. I thought she would call someone, maybe to have me taken away – but no, she had some card on her phone. I asked who Zina specialized in – I said, she’s the village doctor, treated the whole village for all kinds of ailments, even operated on us, and pulled teeth. She thought some more, and said – well, if she’s not in the district or city, then she’s probably in private practice.

Now I’ll teach you, she says. You there, grandpa, don’t even think about asking about your Zina. They generally don’t like old folks – you have no money, if you come to a private hospital, it’s for some trivial matter. Say you want to be treated. Do you have money?

I tell you, two thousand we gathered as a village for the trip. The girl got a little dazed and suddenly jumped up, saying, "Wait, I'll be right back," and ran off to the hospital again. I lit up another cigarette—what's the deal, is there no second guard here? And this one is sitting, dozing off, even started to snore, drool coming down. I wiped it with that hat of his so no one would notice—they'd think I felt unwell and call for doctors.

The girl was gone for a quarter of an hour. Soon this chap will have to wake up—better start packing the fishing rods, but, thank God, she ran out, holding some paper. She approached, sat down, quietly slipped it into the pocket of my jacket, and said, "Here, grandfather, it's a special referral. Give it to them in the private clinic, tell them it's from the outpatient clinic—they'll read it and understand. It's like we treated you here but didn't figure out what you're sick with, so we're sending you to the private clinic, and we’ll pay for your treatment. That's what matters to them—to have someone pay. Just don't get too cocky—tell them you need an examination first, and treatment will be only upon agreement. Let them write down what they prescribe, and, well, you’ll think it over and decide. Got it?"

Got it, I said. What a nice girl she is. And she keeps smiling—oh, it's a pity I'm old, such beauty is going to waste... So, I thanked her, hugged her goodbye, and went on my way. She stopped me—"How long will he sit there?" she asked. "Fifteen more minutes, and he'll wake up. His head will hurt a bit, but that’s about it. You think he won't complain?" The girl smiled—"Don't worry, grandfather, he’ll be shy, after all, he's an old man, forgive me, I hit him in the ear. He'll be as quiet as a fish on ice."

So, I made it to the private clinic—it was across the road. Apparently, they set up closer—so anyone tired of sitting in line would run to them. I walked in—it felt like entering space! The walls were white, all shiny, there were sofas everywhere, and palm trees were growing; if only they weren't serving vodka. I approached the girl at the desk; she looked at me suspiciously—probably thinking I took a wrong door.

But I didn’t care, I sat down, crossed my legs, took the paper out of my pocket, and slapped it down on the table. She took it reluctantly, with two fingers, scanned it with her eyes—and all the foolishness disappeared as if by magic!

Hello, this is Foma Kuzmich speaking! At first, I was taken aback – why is she calling me Foma? I’m Nikiphor. It only dawned on me later – the nurse obviously didn’t know my name when filling out the paperwork. Well, I thought, she’ll ask for my passport now, and old Mikhailych's last reconnaissance mission will fail!

No, she didn’t ask. She told me to wait a moment, picked up the phone, called someone, and soon a little man appeared – quite plump, but polished, dressed in a suit, obviously with a tie, his shoes shining. 'Come along,' he said, 'Foma Kuzmich.'

So I got up, and we went. We entered the office, and there was – no couch, no scales, no cupboard with pills. There was a sturdy oak table, leather chairs, and carpets on the floor. I glanced at my galoshes and felt quite embarrassed. I quietly took them off and left them at the entrance. The man sat down at the table, I settled in across from him.

So he said, 'What brings you here?' And I looked around, unable to figure out – is he a doctor or what? I thought I’d ask directly. 'What specialty do you have, sir?'

He didn’t even blink – 'I’m the manager,' he said. I frowned – 'What are you talking to me for then? I need a doctor. Come on, take me to a doctor. You are a manager, I’m a tractor driver, what kind of illnesses are we supposed to discuss?'

He laughed, almost rolling on the floor – apparently, I had said something utterly nonsensical. 'You, old man, haven’t been to a private clinic in a while, have you?' No, I replied, I’m here for the first time. Well, the manager said, listen up. Here, the order of things is different – first, you talk to the manager, and only then with the doctors. And most likely, you won’t even need to see the doctors. I’ll talk to them myself, I’ll find you the right specialist – for your head, stomach, or nerves – we have all kinds here.

At that moment, it dawned on me: apparently, the manager replaced the therapist. Well, that was how it used to be in the district clinic. Whatever was wrong with you, you went straight to the therapist, and he would redirect you. After all, how could you, old man, know if you need a neurologist or a proctologist if it hurts just below your back when you sit in the saddle?

I asked directly – 'Are you the therapist?' He laughed again – 'Old man, you're asking too many questions, are you a spy or what?' I played the fool – saying, oh, where would I be, I’m just old, I haven’t been to clinics in a long time, I don’t know how things work here. I just want to see a doctor.

He seems to have started to get frustrated—he's tired of laughing. "Come on," he says, "tell me what's bothering you. I'll draft a treatment plan for you, the procedures, tests, examinations. And the doctors will carry out what I write."

I can't help it—"How will you write me a treatment plan if you're not a doctor? Isn't it taught in your management school what pills to use for what?" He started to twitch—"They teach everything there," he says. A manager is, it seems, a universalist. No matter where you push him, he will land on his feet like a cat. If needed, he'll create a treatment plan. If forced, he'll draft a travel plan. If it comes to it, he'll write functional requirements. If this keeps up, he'll even draft a preliminary estimate for building a cosmic launch pad.

So now, he says, it's like that everywhere. The manager takes the task, then passes it to the specialists. And they carry it out. Well, they might grumble a bit if something completely ridiculous is written—then the manager will correct it. This, he says, is called a flexible approach. Like with worms, perhaps?

So come on, old man, don't mess with my head anymore—tell me what's wrong. I thought for a bit and decided—I'll start small, I want to figure out how things work around here. I said I'm coughing. The manager wrote something down and looked at me again. I stayed silent. "That's it?" he asks. "That's it," I reply.

He sighed heavily, thought for a moment, got up, and went to the door—not the one we came in through, but the other side. He stopped at the door and said, "Make yourself at home, Fyoma Kuzmich, if you want to drink—there's water in the corridor." And he left.

I followed him like a mouse. I peeked out—he was walking down the corridor, not looking back. He stopped at two doors and entered the one on the right. I ran up and looked—"Doctor's Office" was written on the door. Next to it was a small couch, and a jar of water was placed on top of a faucet—just like our outdoor washbasins. You just have to press the front to let the water flow, not from the bottom.

I sat down and listened – they were laughing like horses in the office. They said, "Seni, you’re an idiot. What does 'I cough' mean? Is it a dry cough or a wet one? In the morning, or before bed, or does it wake you at night? Is there blood, or just mucus coming out?" Seni babbled something, saying that cough is just a cough, and they laughed even harder – saying if the old man is really old, he might be coughing up his last breaths while you're messing with our minds. It seemed like Seni asked what to prescribe, and someone with a loud voice answered – go ahead, schedule a tomography, you're our brilliant seller, just as long as you can grab the commission. Especially if the clinic pays for it.

Well, I thought, I need to return to my original position – I ran into the office, closed the door, sat down, and waited. Seni came in – his cheeks were flushed, his eyes were darting around; he sat in the chair and caught his breath. He said – a couple of questions came from the specialists to clarify the diagnosis I made. Is the cough dry or wet? I said – it's wet in the morning, dry in the evening. Seni asked about blood – no, I said, I've never had anything like that.

Seni scribbled something down, paused for a moment, and said: well, that's it, Foma Kuzmich, I've outlined the treatment plan. You need a tomography, a complete blood test, an ultrasound of the heart, kidneys, and bladder, a dental X-ray, a biopsy, and I’ll prescribe some vitamins right away. My jaw just dropped – luckily, it's still my own, otherwise that would have been awkward.

I said, my dear, who do you think I am? Even though I’m old, I know how to treat a cough. Look, tablets for it sell for about twenty rubles. That’s when Seni really got going…

He said, everyone thinks they know better how to treat ailments. They start with a cough but don’t ask actual specialists, and end up in a situation where they can't even take a step. Don't skimp on your health, he says. Listen to qualified specialists, and if they say you need an MRI and vitamins – then don’t hesitate, just pay and get it done.

I wouldn't back down – I said, Seni, excuse me, but let me at least talk to the doctors! You know nothing about illnesses! I know more! Do you want me to show you where to press on your carotid artery so you can sleep for half an hour? Seni seemed to get a bit scared or decided not to get involved – fine, he said, I’ll ask one more time. And you, old man, clarify something about your cough.

I thought for a moment about what to say, and then it clicked – I had to say it in a way that Zina would understand if she was there. I pondered, and then said, "Seni, tell them I'm coughing as if I've swallowed a persimmon." "What?" he asked again. "A persimmon," I replied and nodded. The doctors would get it. He shrugged his round shoulders and went back to the doctor’s office, while I followed him.

I sat there, and they weren't laughing this time. I couldn't catch anything, not even noticed Seni's return – I quickly grabbed a glass and pretended to pour water. He stood over me and asked, "Hey, old man, are you from Makaryvo, by any chance?" I nodded, saying yes.

Let's go, he said. One of the specialists wants to talk to you. Well, I already knew who it was. Zina, of course.

He brought me into a proper doctor's office, and as soon as I saw Zina, I started grinning so much I almost ripped my mouth. But I didn't show it – I walked in, sat down, and kept quiet. And Seni sat down beside me. Zina looked at me, smiled softly, then suddenly shouted at Seni – "Why are you sitting there? Get out of here!" He started arguing, saying he was my manager and couldn't leave me alone, but she quickly put him in his place – "Medical confidentiality hasn't been canceled yet." Seni didn't find anything to argue back with and left.

Well, we hugged, as is proper. But she seemed sad, somehow. We sat and talked. She said she left because she was tired. They pay very little in the village – there's no hospital, she worked almost on a volunteer basis, and had been doing so for nearly forty years. No one to marry – who is there in the village? It's all drunks, and those who don't drink are all busy.

She said she thought about it for a long time. She wanted to consult with the people, but didn't dare – she knew they would persuade her, and she would give in. That’s why she left at night, caught a ride, and immediately changed her phone number so they wouldn't start calling her.

I shed a tear – "Zina," I said, "what are we supposed to do without you? What should we do? Travel to the city? Look at it here – you can't wait in line at the clinic, you’ll die before they see you. And in the private one – you’ll pay a year’s salary just to treat a boil. But you, Zina, would give us some calendula, and it would pass in two days. Who in the city even knows about calendula?"

Here, Zina also burst into tears. She got up, locked the door – apparently, to prevent Senya from barging in. Understand me, she says, Mikhailych. I just can't anymore! I understand everything; it's all good for you in the village, you like it there, you have plenty to do, you have roots there, but what do I have? No one. When I arrived, back then, out of foolishness, during my placement, I thought – a village, fresh air, good people. Well, let’s admit, the people are good, and they treat me like family, and the air is alive. And that’s it?

I have acquaintances from the medical institute – they are all in the city, spending half the day at the clinic, to keep their connections alive, and writing dissertations there, while the other half is spent in private clinics, where they earn significantly more. They all have apartments, cars, and regularly go to the sea. And those who are in the north have been making two hundred thousand a month for a long time. I was taken aback – our whole village doesn’t earn that much.

I want to live normally, she says, like a human being. For the last time, as they say. I even stopped arguing with her – I started to understand, it seems. I said, so, what’s happening for you here? Zina smiled, waved her hand, laughing – don’t worry, Mikhailych, where do we not thrive?

They just appointed me as the chief diagnostician here, she says. This means I can identify ailments faster and better than anyone else. Well, of course, in the village, everything had to be done by eye, whether it's a cold, a fracture, or an intestinal twist. I got so good at it that I don't even need tests – especially since there’s no opportunity to take them.

At first, I was worried – here, do you see how everything is? Tomographies, ultrasounds, countless specialties – and I’m just a doctor. When I was hired, I couldn’t even name my specialty properly – I called myself a therapist, just like in my diploma. But when patients started coming in – I immediately diagnosed, even from the descriptions that Senya brought.

I couldn’t help myself – I asked, who is this Senya. She said, this is totally ridiculous; it was recently invented. Their director went somewhere in Moscow, listened to things, and decided that seeing a doctor immediately is outdated. Apparently, a doctor is like a child. A person comes to him with a cough, the doctor writes a prescription and sends them on their way. The patient only pays for the appointment, won’t even buy the tablets – they say it’s too expensive for us. That’s why sales are practically none – the director said ‘we simply sell our time.’ But it’s supposed to be selling more.

And I came up with the idea to hire a manager. That person is competent; he won't just sell what's needed—he'll definitely push, as he said, additional products. He called us programmers and marketers, they set up some program, and wanted us to enter all the records from over the years—to understand whom we can sell what to.

We, of course, got upset, threatened to leave—but it worked out; we hired students from med school, and they almost did everything for free. These marketers figured things out and made tables for us—Zina pulled them out and showed us. It listed ailments and what could be added to each.

There are also separate scare cards that even the doctors had to memorize. Like, if there's a cough, they need to mention all the diseases associated with that cough. They'll throw in cancer, and even say that, according to recent studies, the heart can cause a cough. And the main goal is to sell everyone tomography as the latest and greatest achievement of world medicine. Overall, Zina said it's indeed useful; it can find illnesses on its own, but it's painfully expensive. And the director needs to recover money for the device, so he's trying hard.

But it didn't work out with the doctors. They can't prescribe tomography if a person has an infected cut on their finger or a rash from strawberries on their face. So they separated patients from doctors and put managers in charge. Senya is supposedly the best. They say he used to work with programmers and knows the drill—it's the same issue there. A good programmer, like a doctor, knows the treatment faster than a person can explain their issue. So they treat quickly, cheaply, but the company gains almost nothing.

On the other hand, Zina says, it's actually simpler. Many doctors have started to dull before our eyes, while new ones from the institute are just happy like children. They don't need to think anymore; just follow orders. A manager prescribes a drip; you should just smile and stick the needle in, without asking questions. Some doctors have forgotten how to diagnose and are at a loss about treatment. Soon they'll be like nurses—they've always worked that way.

Moreover, many people's specialization has gone off track. If earlier a doctor was a surgeon, he was just that: a surgeon. He could cut, set bones, diagnose appendicitis, and even cure a hernia without a scalpel. But now, he’s almost like someone who needs a piece of paper telling him where and what to cut, how to stitch it up afterward, and what needs to be rinsed out inside, or what little instrument to insert. It’s as if they’ve turned into factory workers on an assembly line who don't use their brains at all. It’s bad, you see, the brain switches off quickly when you not only don’t see the medical history but even the whole patient. Just a part that the manager pointed you to.

I'm at it again – saying, if things are that bad, come back to us! We'll figure something out with the money. I'll talk to the chairman; maybe he will arrange a higher salary for you, or I don't know how they pay rural doctors extra. No way.

Zina says she’ll save up a bit more and wants to open her own clinic. She'll start with one office and will take patients herself. She says you’re not the only one, Mikhailych, who doesn’t like the way things are around here. Many patients complain they can’t reach the doctors, and they pay money as if for a car repair. It's easier to just lie down and die.

She found like-minded doctors among her peers – those older ones who still remember the Hippocratic oath and that unforgettable feeling – when a patient, realizing that he only needs to take some pills, smiles sincerely, just like one might have when discovering a gift under the Christmas tree in childhood. Zina says that no amount of money can replace that.

Then I chimed in – Zina, I say, when you are in the village, we’ll smile at you so much you’ll get tired of being surprised! She wouldn’t budge. I shed a tear again – I can't help it. I want to earn money and help people too, it's almost like a curse.

Then I had an idea – Zina, I said, what if we come to you for treatment? You know, when you open your clinic. Or maybe you could come to us? Once a week or something? What do you think?

Apparently, she hadn’t thought of that – her eyes immediately brightened, she smiled and nodded. Exactly, she said, Mikhailych! Why didn’t I think of that! But, I’m going to treat for money, and in your village...

Oh, I say, don't be afraid! You're a city girl now, you have no potatoes of your own, no meat, no greens, not even a place to get some homemade brew! We'll take care of you, Zina – you know us, we have the freshest stuff, no chemicals, straight from the garden! No money? Then at least we'll feed you until you're full! There will even be some left for sale.

No, he says, don’t mistake me – I’m a doctor, not a merchant. But it's a good idea. Especially if we provide transportation – we'll bring her from the city, she'll heal for a day and go back with some goodies. I promised to organize everything. That’s what we agreed on.

We sat a little longer, reminiscing about the old days over some tea. You’re right, Mikhailych, this idea of yours is clever. I immediately understood that someone from Makaro was involved, and sure enough – it was me. Where else would I get the money for a private hospital?

— Well, you know the rest. – Mikhailych finished his story. He pulled out another cigarette, lit it, and with a sense of accomplishment stared at the clouds drifting over the village.

— You, Mikhailych, are something else… — the chairperson said with a smile. – Would you be my deputy? We still need to repair the bridge, you might manage to negotiate that, go to the city?

— God forbid. – Mikhailych dramatically crossed himself. – I've had enough. I saved the Motherland last time.

— Good job! Good job, Mikhailych! You really did it! – cheers rang out from the crowd. – I’ll have a shot! I’m the first to Zina!

But Mikhailych was no longer listening. He quietly slipped past the Kirovets and headed home.

Only registered users can participate in the survey. Please log in, please.

As you might have guessed, this text isn't about medicine, but about business automation, modern development, and projects. So what then?

• What else... Since it’s about automation, it needs to be placed in the relevant hubs.

• Something... Nothing.

93 users voted. 23 users abstained.

Source: habr.com