Trafficked by Kim Purcell Page A

hesitated, then climbed in the taxi and sat down on the cracked seat.
    At least it was a taxi and not his own private car. A taxi was a luxury she’d never been able to afford in Moldova. Even taking a minibus cost too much for her family. The driver started up the car, turned on some traditional Romanian music, and headed down the road, not waiting for instructions. He already knew where to go.
    â€œYou have my documents and the plane ticket?” she asked, gulping down her fear.
    â€œI do.” He flattened his hands out on his lap and stretched out his fingers, like a cat flexing its claws, and she noticed his fingernails were long, which was unusual, but at least they were clean and well groomed. She told herself this was a good sign.
    While they drove, Volva told her what she should and what she shouldn’t do when she was going through immigration at LAX. He bobbed his knees back and forth, and it distracted her, those knees jumping around, hitting her own legs on occasion. She barely paid attention to what he was saying.
    At one point, he asked for her Moldovan papers, and she reached into her pouch and gave them to him. He didn’t even look at them before shoving them in his pocket. Instantly, she regretted it, but there wasn’t anything she could do to get them back until he was ready to give them to her.
    The taxi stopped at the back of a long line of taxis outside the Romanian airport. Some of the drivers were leaning up against the taxis, chatting and smoking.
    She felt nervous, but she knew she’d keep going. It would be too hard to go back to Moldova and admit to everyone that they were right. She held out a shaking hand. “You have the documents? My plane ticket?”
    â€œFirst you have to pay me for my troubles,” he said, looking down at her waistband where her pouch with the forty dollars from her uncle was hidden.
    â€œI have nothing.”
    â€œI saw the money when you gave me the Moldovan passport,” he said. “Don’t make me take it. Give it to me like a good girl.”
    She hesitated and then reached into her pouch and handed over the money, praying that he’d give her the plane ticket and she could get out of the taxi, fast.
    â€œForty dollars? That is all?” He looked incredulous.
    â€œI was told the family would pay you.”
    He clucked his tongue, shaking his head. “If you want to go to America, you will pay.” He unzipped his zipper. “But there are other ways to pay.”

Chapter Ten
    T he next morning in Los Angeles, Hannah stood in her loose underwear next to the gleaming white bathtub. She yanked out her elastic and shook out her hair. Still in her underwear, she stepped into the bathtub and examined the nozzle, trying to figure it out. It was an odd, high-tech thing with a lever.
    She couldn’t wait to have a hot bath. Plenty of people in Moldova had bathtubs, but her bathroom had had only a nozzle out of the wall. Maybe it had once had a bathtub, because there was a small hole in the wall where one could have been bolted long ago, but there hadn’t been one as long as Hannah could remember.
    The second most exciting part was the hot water. In Moldova, they’d had cold running water, like most other people. Some people had a boiler, but most people had a bathtub, so they could boil the water on the stove and fill it up. In her house, the cold showers she took in the summer were a rushed, panting experience that gave her chicken skin but left her feeling refreshed. In the winter, she didn’t attempt showers. Instead, she heated up water in the kettle for warm sponge baths.
    Ugh. Stupid nozzle.
    The door rattled. “Elena?” Lillian was shaking the door. The pouch that held Hannah’s documents was lying on top of her green blouse, right out in clear view.
    Hannah hid the pouch under her blouse. “Yes?” she called.
    â€œDo you know how to work the shower?”
    She felt