The morning had gone exactly as Grisha Petrovich had hoped. He had reached a spot next to the Jugovorata Gate before dawn. The stack of wood he had positioned at Yakim’s nearby shop had dried nicely overnight making his grill almost eager to light. As the sun’s light cracked the horizon, the aroma of lamb, pork, and onions from the shashlyk he cooked began to carry across the road to all who entered Medvedgorod.
- I Am a Wondrous Thing