Trafficked by Kim Purcell Page A

would be running up the stairs and coming into our room.”
    â€œNo, I wouldn’t.”
    Hannah glanced back at Maggie. Hannah had always slept in the same room as her parents and she’d never had a nightmare that she could remember, not until they died. After that, she’d had the same one every night. In the beginning, it had left her shaking and sobbing for an hour or even more, with Babulya rubbing her back the whole time; but now she simply got up, splashed cold water on her face, and went back to sleep.
    â€œThat’s where you’ll sleep,” Lillian said, pointing at the sofa. “You can put your things in those boxes.”
    Hannah saw she was referring to some empty cardboard boxes piled next to the sofa. She couldn’t believe she had to sleep in a garage. What about the room upstairs?
    â€œYour suitcase?” Lillian said, trying to take it from her.
    Hannah glanced at Sergey, embarrassed that he was going to see her underwear and fabric sanitary pads, and looked back at Lillian. “I have private things.”
    Sergey spoke up: “I won’t look.”
    Reluctantly, Hannah put the suitcase on the sofa and unzipped it, hoping Lillian wouldn’t see the front pocket where she’d foolishly put the flexible return plane ticket because it was too bulky for the pouch under her clothing. Lillian sifted through the suitcase with the tips of her fingers as if Hannah’s things were too disgusting to touch. Maggie and Michael crowded in. Hannah sat on the sofa beside her suitcase and bit nervously on her lip. Michael grabbed at Hannah’s shiny blue belt, and Lillian swatted at his hand. “Dirty,” she said.
    â€œNothing’s dirty,” Hannah said, insulted. “Except for my traveling clothes.”
    â€œWe will get you new things.”
    Hannah wanted to say that her things were just fine, thank you very much, but she kept her mouth shut. It was true that the hems of her pants were pretty dirty from when she’d stepped in a mud puddle before she got on the bus. Lillian winced as she picked up her traveling clothes and placed them on the rug.
Do you want to get your surgical gloves?
Hannah thought.
It’s just a little dirt.
Moldovan dirt. Without realizing it, she’d brought Moldova with her. She wondered if she should flake it off and keep it somewhere, though of course that was silly.
    Lillian flipped the suitcase shut in frustration.
    Sergey came in. “Nothing?”
    â€œNo.”
    Sergey didn’t say anything, but he smiled that tight smile of his, as if to say
I told you so
.
    Hannah held her breath, hoping she wouldn’t think about the front pocket. No luck. Lillian unzipped it and reached inside.
    Hannah felt her insides groan like an old building.
    Lillian pulled out the picture of her parents first and glanced at it briefly before handing it over. Her parents were sitting on the large granite steps that went up to the National Opera House with its large concrete pillars. Her papa had his arm around her mama, who was smiling that wide smile of hers. They were happy back then. Papulya used to be a mechanic, but he was so much more than that. People joked he was the most literary mechanic they knew. When she was just six, he’d started reading all the great Russian literature to her: works by Chekhov, Dostoyevsky, Gogol, and Tolstoy. At first she didn’t understand the words, but she loved to hear the passion in her father’s voice. Then, when she was just twelve, her father’s father died in police custody—beaten to death by the police for no apparent reason—and her sweet Papulya had abandoned his books and turned instead to the bottle.
    â€œCan I see?” Maggie asked.
    Hannah handed her the photo, even though she didn’t want to. Maggie looked at it, her eyes opening wide. “That’s your mother?” she asked.
    Hannah nodded, wondering if Maggie knew her parents were