I drifted the backstreets of Seattle, constantly moving. Fear and exhaustion stalked me. Russia dominated my thoughts, it became my focal point when I wanted to give up and turn myself in so I could finally rest. Memories bloomed like daffodils and mingled with the sound of my mother’s voice, malen’kaya—malen’kaya…little one. I rolled the word over my tongue. Bits and pieces came floating back to me, but they were all the wrong shape and size to piece the puzzle of my past together. The more I thought of Russia and what I would find there, the less my feet ached, and the less my eyes burned from lack of sleep.

Everywhere homeless people huddled against abandoned houses, under wooden benches, begging for spare change, cigarettes, food. Their wrinkled faces time worn and heavy with hopelessness. A group of teenagers rested on sleeping bags, smoking pot, strumming guitars, begging for money. People hurried past them, stepping over them as if they were invisible. A man in a business suit dropped change into a tin cup. I watched a girl scramble to grab it. Her hair straight and brittle like stems of tangled wheat, her skin marred by meth. She stared at me, her expression devoid of all emotion. It was like looking at an empty body whose soul had departed for a better place. When I stared back into those hollow, vacant eyes—I saw my own and it worried me. If I didn’t make it to Russia, I could end up like her.

There were dozens of other homeless kids, gathered on dirty benches, washing their grimy faces in the bathrooms of nearby restaurants, sleeping on ratty mattresses. I could never sleep on the streets, exposed and dejected—on display for the entire world to see. I spent my evenings wandering Walmart, or hanging around all night cafés drinking cup after cup of coffee. I dozed off when I could. Restless. Always moving. Watching over my shoulder.

The day before my flight, I went to the city library and hid away in a dark corner. I read everything about Russia, the people, their customs, history, and land. I was browsing near a row of travel books on Eastern Europe when I found a series of coffee table books on Russian art. I took one of the oversized volumes to a table, opened its soft ivory cover, and ran my hands over the smooth, buttery pages. I realized at that moment that I loved art more than anything. It was all I had left in the ashes that had become my life.

For a fleeting moment, I thought about not going to Russia, throwing out the passport and other documents. Pretending they never existed, calling Jane and asking to be placed in another home. Enjoy rent-free living for another year, graduate, get a job, and go to art school. But something inside me rebelled. I had to make the trip to Russia. I had to know what happened to my parents. I wanted answers to all the questions that had become thorns in the labyrinth of mystery surrounding my life.

At 5:00 a.m. on Thursday, I stood in front of the Crown Plaza, pretending I had stayed the night at the prestigious hotel, when in reality, I had crashed at the bus station. A shuttle arrived at the curb and I boarded for Sea-Tac. A wave of nerves fluttered over me. My hands shook. I didn’t know if I could pull it off. I was never very good at lying.

I felt as if my head would explode. How many years in prison would they give me for a fake ID? It couldn’t be that long for minors. No, I couldn’t do this. I didn’t want to end up in jail. My dreams of going to Russia faded with every anxious turn of the bus.

A mile before the airport, the bus stopped again. I glanced out the window and spotted a biker in the next lane. He wore a mustache that hung like iron-bar. He turned and nodded to me. He looked friendly, light-hearted. There were fine lines around his hazel eyes, smile lines, no doubt. Tattoos slithering up the side of his arm.

A terrible heaviness centered in the middle of my chest. Tears pooled in my eyes. For a second, I wondered if Chuck had sent him to watch over me, but when the light changed, the biker sped off in the opposite direction.

I dropped my lashes to hide the hurt, sighed, and leaned back into the bus seat. I had never trusted anyone before in my life, but I had trusted Chuck. He would never have done anything that could have gotten me in trouble, never would have asked me to do anything he didn't think I couldn’t handle. As hard as it was, I had to continue to trust him.

For some reason, it was important to him that I went to Russia. That I escaped. He’d gone to a lot of trouble to try to give me a new life. Now that his life was over, I had to make it to Russia, if only for him.

The shuttle dropped me off near the next entrance and I slung my bag over my shoulder. I would have to pass through security and then find the correct gate. My stomach knotted and I felt like I had swallowed stones. My lungs wouldn’t expand. Could they tell I was nervous? Could they see the panic, the fear in my eyes that would give me away?

The airport staff checked my bag and my ID. They searched me over and then waved me through. A tremendous weight lifted from my chest. Suddenly, I could breathe again. The massive plane I’d board in just a few minutes rested outside the window of the gate. All I wanted to do was get on board and into the air.

“Miss?”

I peered over my shoulder.

Two armed guards were waving to me. "Miss, we need to speak to you,” one yelled.

I stared wide-eyed as they approached me.