She wishes she could convince her mother, the same way she has been trying to convince herself, that in two weeks, she will not be coming back. But what if her mother turns out to be right? What if Sasha’s readings from Lermontov and Chekhov make the judges yawn? What if she is too immature to understand what adults already seem to know—that everyday survival always beats art, that the material invariably trumps the intangible? What if, ever since she heard Three Sisters on the radio, she has been chasing after a phantom; what if life is indeed all utilitarian and tethered to the ground, like the spindly goat of one of their neighbors, circling the pole, day after day, over the dusty grass of the yard?

Her mother looks at her watch and gets up. They walk outside, onto the platform where passengers are already waiting, about forty people, the size of Sasha’s drama club. The family from the waiting room is already there, the mother rocking her infant on her left arm and holding her daughter with the same hand she slapped her with, the father clutching a suitcase and fumbling through his pocket in search of something to give to the boy, who leans forward in a stiff, pleading way.

The train will arrive from around a curve where the forest begins its dark expanse behind a meadow dotted with fresh haystacks on the left, and everyone stands swiveled in that direction, waiting for a whiff of smoke to appear above the trees.

Sasha throws her arms around Grandma’s neck. She smells of kitchen and soft cotton, and Sasha presses against her warmth. She knows that Grandma doesn’t believe Sasha will return in two weeks, and this knowledge fortifies her resolve and brings back her strength, at least for the last few minutes. She tells herself that she can’t fall apart in front of everyone on the platform. She can’t allow tears to overwhelm her; she can’t let her mother think that she has been right all along. She looks away, at what she is leaving: everything.

With a whistle, in a cloud of smoke, the train appears from around the curve, and her mother now hugs her as Sasha snuggles into her wet cheek. “Vsyo budet khorosho,” her mother whispers. “All will be well.” This is her usual refrain—although Sasha knows that her well is very different from Sasha’s—which drowns in the hot steam of the train sighing its way to a stop.