Olga stood in line at the gas station with a pistol in her hand. A fuel pistol. Premium 95.

In her other hand - a breast. The left one. Three-month-old Vanya was latched onto it, strapped in with some elaborate harness system that turned motherhood into an extreme sport.

The tank showed 23 liters and 38 kopecks when Vanya bit down with his teeth. He was teething - at three months, fuck, like a shark. Olga yelped and jerked. The nozzle popped out. Gasoline poured onto the asphalt.

- LADY! - a man at the next pump roared. - WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!

Olga watched as the rainbow puddle spread under her ten-thousand-ruble sneakers (her last purchase from her previous life, when she was a person, not a dairy farm).

Vanya released her nipple and neighed. Didn’t laugh - literally neighed, like a tiny horse. From his laughter, bubbles came out of his nose.

Olga felt bubbles rising in her too. Only from her eyes. She stood ankle-deep in gasoline, topless (Vanya had pulled her shirt down), and laughed hysterically.

- Are you insane? - the man asked more quietly now, backing away.

- YES! - Olga shouted. - I AM INSANE!

It was liberation. As if she’d finally admitted what she’d been hiding. She was an insane mother who pumps gas with a baby on her breast. Who yesterday ate soup straight from the pot, standing over the sink, because Vanya only slept upright. Who hadn’t washed her hair in a week and smelled like…

Like milk and gasoline.

A sacred cow on an oil dependency.

A security guard ran up to them. Young, with acne. He saw Olga’s breast, blushed, turned away.

- Uh… we need… um… the fire department…

- We don’t, - Olga said, tucking her breast back in. Vanya protested, but she stuck her finger in his mouth. He latched onto the finger with the enthusiasm of a leech. - I have sand in my trunk. Children’s sand. For a sandbox.

She got the bag out. Poured the sand onto the puddle. The sand had glitter - “magical,” as the package promised. Now the gasoline puddle sparkled like a disco in hell.

The man from the next pump came closer. Now he looked at her not with fear, but with curiosity. Like at an animal in a zoo. Rare. Endangered.

- First one? - he nodded at Vanya.

- Third, - Olga lied. Just to see his jaw drop.

It dropped.

Vanya spat out the finger and said:

- Goo.

But it sounded like “Fuck you.”

Olga paid for the gas (and the spilled one too). Got in the car. The interior reeked: diaper, sour milk, remnants of a three-day-old banana, dried somewhere under the seat.

And gasoline. Now gasoline too.

She started the engine. Eminem was playing on the speakers. Vanya jerked to the beat. He had a sense of rhythm. At three months. Maybe he’d become a musician. Or a junkie. Or a musician-junkie. Or an accountant who sings karaoke on Fridays.

Olga pulled onto the highway. The sun beat down on the windshield. Vanya chewed on his foot (how did he even reach it?). At the traffic light, she looked in the mirror.

On her cheek was an imprint of Vanya’s palm. Gasoline-stained. Glittering with sand.

She looked like a warrior. Or like a clown. Or like a warrior-clown. Or like a mother.

All at once.

She turned on the left blinker, even though home was to the right. Because on the left was McDonald’s. And she wanted fries. Right now. More than being a good mother. More than being normal. More than being.

Just fries.

Vanya fell asleep, still holding his foot in his mouth. Holy infant acrobat.

Olga pulled up to the drive-through window.

- Welcome to McDonald’s, - said a teenager in a headset. - What would you like to order?

- Large fries, - Olga said. - And… happiness. If you have it.

The teenager paused.

- Happy Meal?

- Yes, - Olga said. - Exactly that. A Happy fucking Meal.

And she cried. And she laughed. Simultaneously.