The snow stays on the ground mingling with the dust, not melting even under the sun. Everything is very dry. The dust is the same color and texture of finely ground coffee, as though one could scoop it up into a սրճեփ and enjoy one’s cup of bitterness on the rolling steppe. In the evenings, the smoke from the ger stoves seeps through the town, making everything smell colder. In the sun, though, behind the shelter of a hill, it seems almost warm, if one could ignore the sharp bite of blood in the cheeks and a certain runniness of the nose.