“But you don’t understand, I have no money.”

“Miss Pavlov, as I have already explained we can only assist you with your missing passport.”

“Everything was stolen!”

The agent’s face turned to stone, unamused by my little outburst. I hadn’t meant to raise my voice or lose my temper but we’d been going around in circles for what seemed like hours. I was trapped on a nightmarish carousel, getting nowhere fast.

The older woman with deep wrinkles around her eyes blinked at me with mild impatience; there’d been a line a mile long when I’d entered the U.S. Embassy in St. Petersburg, Russia. The agent was probably wondering how many sob stories she would have to listen to before she could take a break. I could almost hear her stomach growling at me to leave.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…” I took a long breath. “It’s just this has never happened to me before. I’ve never been mugged. And now I’m stuck here, alone, in a foreign country. I can’t speak the language, my travel plans are ruined. I have no one. All I want to do is go home and forget this ever happened.” The tears were threatening to make an appearance but I batted them away, not that they would do much good on this stony excuse for a person.

She nodded, bored. There was no sympathy evident in her distant eyes and she began to recite my options again, her tone level and even as if she were reading from a script.

“You will need to contact someone—a family member, a friend—back home and ask for them to send you some money or to make travel arrangements for you. We will be able to provide an emergency passport and help you with the money transfer if needed. There are plenty of Western Union points around town.”

“I don’t have anyone,” I whispered, my head dropping forward, inches away from colliding with the scratched-up Plexiglas, partly opaque from age in places. “My gran is the only one left and she’s in a nursing home. She doesn’t have any spare money. Wouldn’t even know how to get it to me even if she did. What am I supposed to do?”

“Then you only have one other option. You will need to sell anything and everything that you can. Here and back home. Do you have any assets in the states? A car perhaps, or a savings account?”

“If I had a savings account I wouldn’t be in this mess,” I snapped, losing my patience. Why wouldn’t she help me? They couldn’t just leave me stranded in Russia for the rest of my life, could they?

“Look, I don’t know what else to do. I’ve already sold everything I can spare. I’m living in a hostel, I have a cleaning job that pays for my bed, but that’s about it. I barely eat. What else am I supposed to do? I came here for help and you won’t even do that.”

“Unfortunately my hands are tied, Miss Pavlov. And I’ll forget that you mentioned you have what is probably an illegal job…”

I wanted to rip out my hair in frustration. Instead, I took a deep breath and started to count to ten. I only opened my eyes again once I knew for sure I wasn’t going to break down in a puddle of tears or scream at the top of my lungs.

The agent leaned forward, closer to the thick Plexiglas barrier between us, and pointed at my chest.

“What about your necklace? That looks like it could be worth something. Enough to maybe get you home. I can give you the information for some reputable pawn shops that won’t rip you off.”

I clutched at the dangling locket that hung low and long. “I can’t… No,” I said more firmly. “Selling my necklace is not an option.”

The agent sighed. “Suit yourself. Then there’s not much else I can advise. I’ll be happy to process your temporary passport when you need it.”

I let my shoulders sag. The conversation was over. The agent stared blankly at me, as if I wasn’t even there, waiting for me to leave. I did the only thing I could and lifted my body, overloaded with worries and fears, out of the chair and left the cramped booth. It wouldn’t do anyone any good if I caused a scene; I still needed them to issue my temporary passport if I ever did manage to afford a flight home. But with only three hundred and eleven rubles—just over five U.S. dollars—to my name, I was going nowhere fast. I needed at least forty thousand to buy a ticket to the States.

So much for my big adventure, I thought. I’d dreamed of exploring the world, writing about my experiences, but I’d only made it partway across Europe before getting myself into trouble. I’d landed in London, then after a week caught the train through the tunnel to France. I wished I’d never left the ancient streets of Paris and the bright café I’d worked at for a short stint, cash under the table, and all the rich food I could eat. François, the chef, had been sweet on me.

But my feet started to itch, needing new experiences to write about, and I was off, backpacking northward. Through picturesque Belgium and Amsterdam, getting my buzz on and topping up my travel funds, distributing leaflets aimed at tourists on the cobbled streets, pointing the way to hot clubs and other places of interest. Once the kitty was full again, I stuck out my thumb and hitched rides east. Only stopping for a brief moment in Germany before following the crowd of backpackers to Copenhagen. I hadn’t planned it that way, but everything was going so well. Until I reached Stockholm and lost the small group of traveling companions who’d adopted me.

It wasn’t such a big deal, I enjoyed traveling by myself, but then I made the mistake of getting on the ferry to St. Petersburg. It was only hours after disembarking that I was mugged by two figures, large blurs, stains upon my adventures, and left bruised, scared, and alone.

I was lucky. I had to remind myself of that. It could’ve been so much worse. They took all I had: my money, my phone, and watch, anything of value, including my dignity. Thankfully they hadn’t spotted my necklace, tucked away beneath several layers of clothing. I clutched at it again, like a lifeline and made my way back to the hostel, following the map Darya had kindly sketched out for me.

I was very lucky, I told myself again. If it weren’t for Darya, I’d be living on the streets, dirty and cold, with an empty belly and no hope. Somehow, through wild gestures and bad mimes, and I supposed the added bonus of looking like a lost backpacker—though my pack was deflated of belongings—locals pointed me toward the Little Waters Hostel.

Darya had taken one look at me when I’d entered the cozy building and knew instinctively that she had a battered and weary traveler on her hands. And though I was a complete stranger to her, she wrapped me in her arms and let me weep, comforting me with her soft Russian words. Once I was wrung out, no more tears left to cry, the softness of her face transformed to something akin to determination and we came up with a plan. She couldn’t give me a bed for free, but I could work and earn my keep until a better solution was found.

A scattering of leaflets, some loose on the table, some pinned to a corkboard, fluttered in greeting as I let the door close behind me.

“How did it go?” Darya asked from behind the chipped turquoise counter. The color clashed with the rest of the foyer. Lemon-yellow ceiling, bright graffiti murals, a pink, frayed armchair off to one side that had seen much better days. The hostel, especially the downstairs, reminded me of youth centers back home, decorated haphazardly by so many hands. But somehow the confusion of it all worked and reinvigorated travelers when they entered the space. It made them feel welcome. A home away from home. Though I couldn’t feel the effects of it today.

“Not well.” I sank into the chair and rested my chin in my cupped hands.

Darya winced. “Do not worry. Your luck will turn. I can feel it in my bones.”

“I hope you’re right. I can’t stay here for much longer, I’m such a burden.”

“You are no such thing. You stay for as long needed, as long as you contribute.” Darya shrugged. “Toilets still need scrubbing. My back is enjoying this holiday.”

I smiled. “Is that a hint?”

“A little one.”

“Okay, I’ll get right on it,” I said and got to my feet, shrugging off my jacket. Working would keep my mind distracted anyway. No point in wallowing. That would definitely get me nowhere. But if I was to get back home, I needed more money, a second job, something that paid more than minimum wage. Forty-five rubles an hour, or less than a dollar, wasn’t cutting it, especially when most of that “paid” for my bed and a roof over my head.

“Darya, I don’t suppose you could give me any more hours? Don’t get me wrong,” I added quickly, “I’m so grateful to you and all that you have done for me, but at this rate it’ll take me months, if not years, to be able to afford a ticket home.”

“I wish I could. There is only so much work to do.”

I nodded, understanding and gave Darya a swift hug. “I know, thank you anyway. Now, where is that mop?”

Darya proceeded to give me a rundown of my afternoon duties; she was right there wasn’t much, though it would still be back-breaking work nonetheless.

---

I was finishing up changing the bedding in the last female dorm room—I was getting pretty good at making neat folds and hospital corners—when a group of young women, chattering loudly, entered from a busy day exploring. I offered them a smile but quickly got back to work. I wasn’t part of their world anymore, not really. I was a backpacker in limbo. If I wasn’t moving forward then could I even consider myself a traveler any longer?

That was another one of the downsides of being stuck in a foreign country with no money. I didn’t even get the chance to step foot outside and do what I’d come here to do in the first place—suck up all the glorious culture and visit all the places my gran had told me stories about.

“Sorry, are you finished? Can we come in?”

“Be my guest,” I replied, they were already halfway into the room, claiming their beds again.

“Hey, you work here, right?”

I lifted my head to find a woman about my age, with long brown hair standing a foot away from me. She had kind eyes and either a Scottish or Irish accent. I couldn’t tell.

I nodded. “Kinda. Do you need something?”

“Oh, no. We were just wondering is all. We’ve seen you about. What’s your story? You work and sleep here?”

“Yeah, it’s a long story.”

“You should come join us, tell us. We’ve got a little bet going, you see.”

“I have to finish up here,” I said glancing at the five remaining beds that still needed clean sheets before the masses descended.

“We can help, can’t we girls?” The others nodded, and the brunette stuck out her hand. “Colleen, nice to meet you.”

I wiped my hands on my jeans then took hers. “Anna.”

Before I knew it I was introduced to the rest of their group. Then Shawna, Sofia, Nina, and Colleen were stripping off the beds.

“So, what kind of bet?” I asked, curious.

“Well, the grand prize is a full bar, the big ones mind you, of Cadbury’s chocolate Nina has kept stashed away. The greedy little mere. We all had to try and figure out what happened to you. You’re stranded right?”

I nodded.

“Score one for me!” Colleen squeaked, but then made a frowny face. “Sorry, must be hard.”

“Way to put your foot in it, you eejit,” Shawna interrupted shaking her red spiral curls and tutting.

“It’s not so bad. I have a bed.”

“So, what happened? Did you get dumped by a good-for-nothing sack of shit too?” Nina asked.

“No. Did your boyfriend leave you?” I blurted aghast. I lowered myself to the bed I’d just finished up and smoothed the sheet absently.

“Yup, he hooked up with some other bint and hightailed out of Amsterdam before I could even come up for air.”

“What a dick,” I muttered.

“You’re telling me,” Nina said, but shot me a smile. “But I’m well rid of that Scouse bastard.”

“Okay, so far I’m still winning. Come to me oh-glorious choccy!”

“Hold your horses, you haven’t won yet,” Shawna interrupted.

“Like you’re gonna win. Shawna here reckoned you blew all your money on drugs, but I think that’s just wishful thinking and longing on her part,” Colleen continued with a snort.

“You all had fun in Amsterdam too I presume?” I replied with a knowing smile.

The girls giggled and nodded.

“Nah, it was nothing like that,” I admitted. “I’ll not keep you in suspense any longer; I got mugged. Rookie mistake; I lost my group and traveled alone. Paid the iron price.”

“Oh, shit,” Sofia whispered, placing a hand on top of mine as she sat down next to me. Sofia’s accent was thick, Eastern European if I had to guess.

“They took everything I had,” I said and relayed the story as they all looked on in sympathy.

“And you are stuck?” Sofia asked in stilted English, as her skinny eyebrows knitted together, like two pieces of thread wrestling each other for the middle.

“Yup. It’ll take me a while, but I’ll get home eventually.”

Each of the women nodded somberly, going quiet. Suddenly Colleen smacked her hands together. “We should help you. If we all chip in I’m sure it’ll add up.”

“I couldn’t ask you to do that. You barely know me.”

“Yes, but,” Nina said, “if it were the other way around, I know I would be grateful if someone helped me get home.”

“Look it won’t be much,” Colleen added, “but it’ll be enough to keep you fed and get you one step closer, okay?”

“I don’t know what to say,” I replied, completely in shock at their generosity.

“You can say thank you, and you get to keep the chocolate bar too. It has been decided, hasn’t it girls?” They all nodded, though Shawna looked slightly dismayed she’d miss out on the chocolate treat. I vowed to share it with them, no matter what they said.

I laughed at that. “Thanks. It’s been months since I’ve had any decent chocolate.”

“Ah, Belgium,” we all said in unison, then broke into another round of giggles.

“So you’ll take our money?” Shawna encouraged. “I have a thousand rubles I can spare.”

“If you insist. But I promise to pay it forward whenever I get the chance.”

“It is either that, or you sell your body online, no?” Sofia added.

Colleen looked in horror at her traveling companion. “Feck off! What on earth are you chatting about, Sofia? She’s not that desperate yet. Are you?”

“Hell no!”

Sofia shrugged. “It is option. Girls from where I’m from do it all time. Russian women too.”

“You’re going to have to explain that to me,” I said, my puzzled face matching the other three staring at Sofia.

“It is true.” Sofia busied herself digging a slim hand into her pocket then pulled out her phone. A few seconds later she extended her arm so we could all see the screen.

Shawna dissolved into a fit of laughter. “You think she should become a mail-order bride? You must be soft in the head, woman.”

Sofia frowned. “I do not know what that means.”

“Never mind,” Shawna replied with a smile and gave Sofia half a hug, squeezing her shoulder.

I took Sofia’s phone and studied the webpage. Did things like this still happen in the twenty-first century? It had never even occurred to me that there would be a need for such a service, what with all the technology that supposedly connected us all.

“This has to be a joke page, right?” I asked. “This can’t be real. Do men still pay to have brides shipped across the world? I thought that went out of fashion years ago.”

“Yes. It is very real. My… how do you say… Mother’s sister’s daughter?”

“Cousin?”

“Yes, my cousin is a mail-order bride. Lives in Canada now. Very happy.”

Around the room four mouths dropped open, we probably looked like drowning fish.

Sofia continued. “I, er, thought of doing it too. But got scared and decided to travel instead. Find love another way.”

“You dodged a bullet there,” Nina exclaimed. “You’d have to be mad to do something like that.”

“Or desperate…” I added quietly.

---

I wiped the sweat from my brow and settled onto the squeaky office chair with what remained of my donated chocolate bar and cup of soup that had far too many carrots for my liking. I entered my login and password on an ancient computer that was faded beige with age. I waited for a long moment as its internal processes whirled to life, deciding whether or not to accept my password. The thing was probably older than I was and could double as a relic in a time-capsule. But at least the clunky beast worked and connected to the net.

The corner space on the first floor, with its bank of mismatched computers and single laptop, was the hostel’s barely functioning internet cafe. Which composed of three computers and a kettle you had to plug into the wall.

I only had a few minutes left on my account, courtesy of Darya, of course, and tapped like a madwoman, pulling up the browser and waiting for my email messages to appear.

This was the only communication I had left, what with my phone being long gone. I missed the phone fiercely, but not for the reasons people would normally jump to. I wasn’t addicted to the latest social media app or free-to-play mobile game, barely gave them a second glance while I’d been abroad. What I missed most was its familiarity. Its overly girly sparkly case, chunky with encrusted fake diamonds, that left tiny dimples in my palm if I held it too long. I missed scrolling through all the photos I’d taken along the way as well as the ones back home, of Mom and Gran. I missed the playlists I’d carefully curated to suit whatever mood I was in. Most importantly, I missed her; being able to listen to her voice, playing the message over and over again until I ran out of credit.

It was a tether that had been violently cut, like an umbilical cord that provided me essential nutrients. But it was gone, and so was she, and there was no way to get either of them back now.

Nestled amongst a bunch of spam and promotional discounts, there was one email from an address I recognized, dated two days previous, that sat waiting for me. I clicked on it immediately and held my breath.

My hand let go of the angular mouse and its sharp corners and clutched at my throat instead. No.

I read and reread the email, panic swelling in my chest.

Tears blurred my vision.

Through the watery barrier I managed to read the last line. The email was signed by a nurse Martina Tucker. I vaguely remembered the woman, her soft features, wide hips, and graying hair from the last time I’d visited Gran. She’d been sweet and attentive and I knew Gran would be in good hands during my trip abroad. But now they were threatening to kick her out? I’d never had reason to ask about the financial sides of Gran’s care. She’d always made it seem that everything was taken care of and that I wasn’t to worry my head about it. But I would never forgive myself if I wasn’t there to prevent this from happening. Yet what could I do? No amount of wishing and pleading for the circumstances to be different was going to produce a magic carpet to spirit me back to home. I had to face facts no matter how much the guilt threatened to burn a hole in my stomach like a corrosive acid; I was on the other side of the world with no hope of getting home to stop it.

Unless…

I shook my head and closed my eyes as the conversation and Sofia’s shocking, but illuminating, comments about the darker side of the world from earlier that evening came flooding back. I’d dismissed the preposterous idea immediately. I wasn’t that desperate to give up my freedom for the sake of a plane ticket.

The girls had scrapped together just shy of four thousand rubles, but it was still a long way from the amount I needed.

Now, everything had changed.

The tables had turned, spinning wildly into the air, and I was left upside down clinging on for dear life. Gran needed me. I wasn’t going to let her become homeless, not at her age, not when she needed to stay where she was, she couldn’t put any strain on her heart.

Could I do it? Could I sign up to be a mail-order bride, commit myself to one man, a stranger, to get home? Or worse, lie and take advantage of someone else’s vulnerability?

I swallowed.

Blustering butterflies brewed up a storm within me as I navigated to the site I’d subconsciously memorized from Sofia’s phone. Of all the things my brain decided to trap, this had to be the most ludicrous. And yet there I was, mouse nestled in my palm, finger poised at the ready.

I clicked, and like Alice fell down the rabbit hole into an unknown world.