About the book: 2020 / His name was Frol. Every morning he arrived at his place about twenty minutes early, when the half-asleep, red, swollen-eyed night shift was still busy at the stands. As always, he walked from the locker room through the huge workshop area between the warm, oily gray sides of the machines, habitually maneuvering between them so as not to walk along the aisle - there is further. As always, he was immediately overwhelmed and slightly deafened by the familiar noise and smell of warm machine oil, burning, hot metal…