Trafficked by Kim Purcell

her boyfriend, that was for sure, but this was a land of complicated relationships. He could be her father, her uncle, her pimp.
    Hannah had to go to the bathroom after being on the bus for twelve hours, but she had no idea where it was. The black car was still there, and she could ask Ina, but she didn’t want to. She hoped they weren’t waiting for her. If the agent didn’t show up, she’d just go back to Chişinău.
    On the way to the bus depot in Chişinău, her uncle Petru had sat next to her on the minibus and he’d slid her forty American dollars. She’d stared down at it in stunned amazement. She’d never held that much money. He told her to put it in her pouch, and once she’d done that, he rubbed one hand on his balding head and told her it was for any emergency she might have, either here or in America. He’d cleared his throat then and told her she was always welcome at his home. It had been nice for him to say it, even if his wife didn’t agree.
    An older taxi driver was leaning against his taxi, watching her, a cigarette pinched between his forefinger and his thumb. She didn’t like the feeling that everyone was just a little too interested in her. Finally she asked the cigarette seller where the bathroom was.
    He pointed to the side of the main terminal building. She picked up her father’s suitcase and hurried around the building to a set of crumbling concrete steps that led down to the public toilets. The stench made her stomach turn. At the bottom, two bathroom attendants were playing cards at a small table.
    She paid the men four lei out of her bra, went into a tiny room with a toilet, and locked the door with the hook lock. She crouched and started to go to the bathroom.
    Mid-pee, she heard a man calling her name outside. “Hannah?”
    She hurried to finish, made sure her pouch with the documents and the rest of her money was hidden under the waistband of her pants, and then threw open the door. A man stood at the top of the stairs. He had a regular lean build, hazel eyes, dark brown hair, and white Russian skin. He was wearing a denim jacket. On his lapel was a small Romanian flag pin. The taxi driver came up next to him, smoking a cigarette.
    â€œYou Hannah?” the man with the pin asked.
    â€œYes,” she breathed. “I’m Hannah.”
    â€œYou were supposed to be waiting for me out here.” He spoke in a rough Russian accent and sounded irritated. He had to be the agent, even though he was wearing a denim jacket, not a leather one. She couldn’t imagine most people wore Romanian pins on their lapels, and he did know her name. “Let’s go.”
    She ran up the stairs. “What’s your name?” she asked, trying to be careful for once.
    â€œVolva,” he said, giving her an appraising look.
    He had one of those perfect noses. It had no bumps or curves, and the nostrils were evenly shaped.
    They walked back toward the terminal. The black car was still there. Volva lifted his hand and Ina waved out the half-lowered darkened window. Hannah lifted her hand, confused, as the car drove off. It was like they were passing her off. From Olga to Ina to Volva. But perhaps it was just a coincidence.
    â€œYou know her?” Hannah asked.
    He grunted an affirmative response. “Ina went on the bus from Moldova to make sure you arrived safely.”
    â€œShe didn’t tell me that,” Hannah said, hesitating once they came up to the yellow taxi.
    â€œIt was safer this way,” he said, opening the back door for her.
    â€œWhy was it safer?” she asked, ignoring the door.
    â€œIf you knew it, maybe you would tell the authorities something.” He shrugged. “And you didn’t need to know.”
    She looked toward the black car disappearing down the road and back at Volva. Her heart was beating fast. Something felt wrong. Volva jerked his head impatiently toward the door. She