Kirill Ryabov has a remarkable gift: without the usual, and often empty, long-windedness of Russian prose, he manages—through his stories—to connect all the pain points and recurring themes of the homegrown (and even global) humanist tradition, also known as love and compassion for one’s neighbor. Desolate spaces on the outskirts and unwelcoming apartments in Ryabov’s stories are not a reason for dull everyday chronicling. Instead, it’s a borderland world between sleep and waking—full of energy, absurdity, and despair—an entire limbo with no chance of escape.