The bathroom is small, tiled, humming with cheap fluorescent light. I lock the stall, lift Lily onto the closed toilet, put my hands on her little cheeks.
“Listen to me, baby,” I whisper. “We’re going to play a game, okay? We’re going to be very, very quiet. Like little mice.”
She blinks at me, big eyes still a bit puffy from crying earlier. “Mice?”
“Yes.” I force a smile. “No sound. Can you do that for Mama?”
She nods solemnly. It’s enough.
The window above the sinks is small, meant for ventilation, not escape. I push it. It sticks, then gives way with a groan. Cold air pours in. Outside, I see the side of the building, a narrow strip ofgravel, and a rusted dumpster. It’s not a nice landing, but it’s not far.
“Up you go,” I whisper.
I boost Lily first, heart in my throat. Her little shoes scrape the wall as I angle her through the gap. She whimpers once, more startled than hurt.
“Shh, baby. It’s okay. I’m right here.”
I slide my arms out, grab her under the arms, and lower her as far as I can before I have to let go. It’s a short drop. She lands on her feet, stumbles, but stays upright. I could cry with relief.
“Stay right there,” I hiss. “Hands on the wall. Don’t move.”
She does it. One hand on the brick, the other wrapped around that stupid kids’ sticker.
I haul myself up next. The sill digs into my stomach. For a second I’m sure I’m going to get stuck and this will all be pathetic and pointless. Then adrenaline kicks in and I wriggle through, one leg, then the other, palms scraping rough concrete.
I drop beside her, knees hitting hard. Pain punches up my shins. There’s dirt on my dress, glass dust still in my hair, and my heart is beating like it wants out of my chest.
But we’re outside.
No Aleksander. No Nikolai. No gunfire.
Just the alley, the low hum of traffic, and the distant, muffled sounds of the diner.
I grab Lily’s hand. “Come on.”
We move fast along the side of the building, past the dumpster, around to the front. I keep my head down, hair in my face. Nobody looks at us twice. A woman with a toddler is just…a woman with a toddler.
There’s a bus stop not far from the parking lot entrance—faded sign, scratched plexiglass shelter, a bench with chewing gum fossils stuck to it. I don’t check the route. I don’t care.
The bus that pulls up first is half-full, loud, and smells like old air and fries. Perfect.
We get on. I pay cash, my hands still shaking, and sit near the back, wrapping my arms around Lily, who’s pressed tight against me, thumb in her mouth.
My heart doesn’t slow. It just gets louder.
The bus rattles onto the highway. I watch the diner slide out of view through grimy glass, stomach twisting. Any second now, he’s going to realize I’m gone. He’ll count minutes, check the bathroom, follow the logic. He’s not stupid. He’ll know.
And if I know him at all, he’ll start pulling at every thread he can reach.
It hits me then: this is exactly what he’d expect. First bus. First obvious exit.
I yank the cord.
The driver glances in the mirror as the bell dings. “Next stop?” he calls.
“Yes,” I say. My voice sounds thin.
We get off at a small transfer station—just a concrete island with a couple of bays, a flickering timetable, and a bored guy ina reflective vest scrolling his phone. The kind of place nobody really looks at, just passes through.
