Last sunrise

© Alexey Sharypov, 2022

ISBN 978-5-0059-2547-3

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

In the on-call hospital, even at night, there was no slackening of activity. Ambulances went back and forth one by one, bringing in patients with different fates. Lately, there had been a lot of heart patients. The weather was galloping like a little girl through a rubber band, and my blood pressure was jumping in leaps and bounds, hitting the hypertensive people. Especially, of course, it plagued the elderly citizens.

In the seventh ward on the third floor lay an old veteran. He had been brought straight from his speech in front of the draftees, decorated with medals, so that there was not enough room on his chest. The veteran felt sorry for himself, he was excited, remembering his youth, the hard war years. So his heart failed him. Doctors did everything they could, but he was about ninety. But they whispered in secret and shook their heads, looking at the veteran in a dejected way. The old man lay on white sheets, looking out the window and crying silently. In all his life he had never been broken by any misfortune, he had gone through the whole war without a single scratch, and here, on the contrary, his heart gave out. “Age,” thought the veteran, sighing heavily.