I stop walking. We’re halfway to the stairs of the plane. The crew is waiting. Aleksander is a step ahead, talking quietly to a man in a reflective vest. At Lily’s words, he turns, eyes immediately going to her.
“She needs the bathroom,” I say.
I can see the flicker of anxiety in his face. Every delay is a risk and we both know it. He looks toward the little building by the fence, the one with a couple of lit windows and a faded “Terminal” sign. Then he looks back at us.
“Quick,” he says. “I’ll wait here. Text me if anything feels wrong.”
I nod. He reaches out and squeezes my wrist once, like a tether, then lets go.
Inside, the “terminal” is basically a glorified waiting room and a corridor with a couple of doors. The bathroom is single-stall, private, too quiet. I lock the door behind us and the click makes my stomach jump.
“Can you do it by yourself?” I ask Lily gently.
She nods, rubbing her eyes. “Uh-huh.”
I help her with her pajamas and set her on the little toilet, then step back to give her space, keeping my body between her and the door without even thinking about it.
The tiles are the same kind of cold off-white as the hospital. The mirror is a little cloudy. The sink drips, slow and steady.
My hands start to shake.
Bathroom. Bright light. Someone behind me in the mirror.
“Hey,”I hear myself say in my head.“What a coincidence.”
Elena’s smile.
Then pain. Black.
I grip the edge of the sink and force myself to breathe.
“Mommy?” Lily says, voice echoing a little.
“I’m here, baby,” I manage. “You okay?”
“Done,” she says. “Can you wipe?”
I do, hands still unsteady, and help her wash her hands at the sink. The water is lukewarm. She plays with the soap bubbles like everything is normal.
I stare at our reflections in the mirror. Me, pale and jumpy. Her, small and trusting.
Flashes start to push through, sharp and quick.
Not the hit to the head—that part is just white and noise. After.
Rolling. The sensation of movement under me, wheels bumping over a threshold. My body slumped, too heavy. The smell of air outside, colder. A mask over my face. I couldn’t move my arms.
Elena’s voice, close to my ear. “It’s fine. They’re expecting us.”
Another voice answers. Deeper. Male. “Hurry up. We don’t have long.”
Lily tugs my sleeve. “Mommy, your hands are shaking.”
“I’m okay,” I lie.
More fragments.
Someone lifting my arm carelessly, like they’re checking how out of it I am. A hand on the wheelchair handle that doesn’t feel like Elena’s—bigger, rougher. I remember the sound of a grunt when the chair hit a crack in the pavement. A muttered curse in Russian that wasn’t hers.
