I’ve been reading Kolyma Stories, which are short stories about the Kolyma prison camp in Siberia, where the author lived for several years.
The duty orderly was pleased that the death had happened in the morning instead of the evening; he would get the dead man’s rations for that day. Everyone understood that, and Potashnikov was bold enough to approach the orderly and say, “Leave a crust for me.” But the orderly responded with the violent cursing that can only come from a man who was once weak and is now strong and who knows that he can curse with impunity. A weak man curses a strong man only in extraordinary circumstances, when moved by the boldness of despair. Potashnikov said nothing and retreated.
He had to decide to do something, to make his enfeebled brain think up something. Or die. Potashnikov wasn’t afraid of death. But he did have a secret passionate desire, a last stubborn resolve, a desire to die somewhere like a hospital, in a bunk or a bed, being attended…
As you can see, they’re bleak stories. I happened to read one that didn’t contain violence and felt universal, about people faking being carpenters in order to experience some warmth. I read it to the guy, and while it didn’t blow him away, it was understandable to a six-year-old. It sucks to be cold.