She held her map of Moscow up to the window, trying to match the city in her head with the one hulking in the half dark outside. “I think we’re here,” she said, stabbing at the map and looking over her shoulder to Meg. “I think the river is that way.” “I don’t want to go out,” Meg murmured. She was suffering theatrically on the narrow bed by the wall, with her red hair splayed across her face and her arms tightly coiled around her slender frame. They should have been happy. They were here; it was coming true. But Meg had gotten sick on the airplane, and their first Russian meal—cabbage and kasha and some kind of fried cutlet—was gurgling around in their stomachs. Josie paced along the wide window. “Maybe some fresh air…” she said, but stopped herself. There was no sense being difficult. In their eight years together, she didn’t recall ever winning a dispute with Meg. Still, there was so much to see out there, and they only had six days. She pressed her face against the cool window and practiced sounding out the few simple words she recognized on the dozens of bright city signs—.
