-"Did you have factories where you were, jobs for people?"
-"Yes, many. You could find work."
-"Was it cold?"
-"Yes, it was..."
-"And the airplane that brought you was big?"
-"No, small. It was a charter flight."
-"Oh, okay. Give me the plates now..."
Master-Stelios sat on the attic rafters as if he were sitting in his living room armchair. He only occasionally took off his old military jockey and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. I moved forward with my arms open, like a tightrope walker. From the passages on the rafters, I could see the cedar beams, thick and smoky. Below, in the distance, the floor. I bent down for the plates. My gaze fell back to the floor. I got dizzy. I could barely see the wood-burning stove - covered with thick nylon - and a part of the chimney. Next to it, turned upside down and with its head leaning against the wall, grandma's bed; its legs stood in the air. This room had no ceiling, and as my mother says, in this room, me and my siblings were born. I tried to move. A piece of the plate slipped from the passages and cracked on the floor, near the others. I started carrying plates and stacking them next to the master.
Faces that have lost their orientation, in small or big turns of their lives. Their attempt to find a way again ties the eight stories of the book together.