The van smelled like wet coats and gasoline, the kind of smell that sticks in your mouth and makes you wish you could breathe somewhere else. I slid onto the bench seat across from two kids I didn't know.
The boy was about my age—maybe a little younger—but smaller. His knees stuck out from under shorts that were too thin for the weather, and there was a scab on one of them. He kept scratching at it without looking up. His sweatshirt had holes in the sleeves where someone had chewed them, maybe him.
The girl sat beside him. Older—twelve or thirteen, I guessed. She had this way of looking at you that wasn't really looking, more like checking to see if you were a threat. Her hair was in a braid that had come half apart, and she held a blue backpack to her chest like it was the only thing keeping her from falling apart.
The man with the clipboard sat in the front passenger seat, flipping through papers and mumbling into a walkie-talkie. The driver—the one in the dark coat—didn't speak at all. I could see his thick, pale hands on the steering wheel, knuckles standing out like he was gripping it too hard.
I leaned toward the boy. "Do you know where we're going?"
He didn't answer. His eyes stayed on the scab, fingers picking at the edges.
I turned to the girl. "Do you?"
She shook her head once, eyes flicking toward the window. "No." Her voice was flat, but there was something in it—like she wasn't sure if not knowing was better or worse.
We drove for what felt like forever. I lost track of the turns, the stops, the bumps in the road. At one point, Clipboard turned around and gave me that too-big smile. "You're going to a better place," he said, like we should be grateful. "Beds, food, everything you need."
The girl made a sound—half laugh, half snort—but didn't say anything else.
When we finally stopped, we were at an airport. They moved us through side doors, away from the big crowds. Dark Coat kept his hand on my shoulder, heavy and cold. The girl's backpack swung against her leg as she walked. The boy just followed, his head down.
The plane ride was long. I tried to watch out the window, but all I saw was gray sky and white clouds that looked close enough to touch. I must've fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew, the wheels hit the ground so hard my teeth clacked together.
The air outside bit at my skin. I could see my breath, curling white in front of me. Over a doorway, big strange letters curved in a way I'd never seen before. I didn't know what they meant then, but later I'd learn it said "St. Petersburg."
We climbed into another van, this one rattling like it might fall apart at any second. Outside, the city was all gray buildings and narrow streets, the kind of place where even the light seemed cold.
When we stopped, I saw a building that looked different from the rest. Not falling apart. Clean. Too clean. High windows glowed faintly in the dark.
Inside, the heat hit me first. Then the sound.
At first, I thought it was the wind, but it wasn't. It was crying. Dozens of voices. Some sharp, panicked. Others low and tired, like they'd been crying for days.
It got under my skin, like cold water dripping down my spine.
Clipboard in hand, a man smiled like this was nothing unusual. "Welcome," he said. "This is where you'll stay now."
But I didn't feel welcome. I felt trapped.
And the worst part was, I was starting to think those cries weren't going to stop.