You are standing at the service counter with a box that feels significantly heavier than it did when you hauled it into your apartment . There is a specific kind of physical exhaustion that comes from carrying a failed promise. It is the weight of an oil-filled radiator that was supposed to turn a drafty bedroom in Balti into a sanctuary but instead spent clicking rhythmically while you shivered under two blankets.
The box is awkward, the tape is peeling, and your hands are slightly red from the chill of the parking lot. You look at the person behind the desk-let’s call her Zinaida, though she might be an Elena or a Maria-and you prepare your speech. You have the measurements of the room. You have the north-facing window orientation. You have the exact temperature of the floorboards at midnight. You have a story about how a 2.5 kW unit with eleven sections should have been enough, but wasn’t.
Zinaida has heard this story before. She heard it twice this morning and eleven times last Tuesday when the first real frost hit Chisinau. She knows before you open your mouth that you aren’t here because