As we get to the top of the steps I see Petre give papers to some men in uniform who nod at him and wave him on. Then it’s our turn. Magda speaks to one of the men in an overly familiar way. The officer doesn’t respond, just stares at me. Magda’s voice goes higher and she speaks fast and loose. She brushes specks of invisible dirt off her top. The man looks disapproving, but waves us on.

We walk until the first corner, and then turn right. A loud cracking sound as Petre whacks Magda on the side of the head. ‘What have I said about drawing attention to yourself? Only ever answer questions you are asked.’

Magda looks at the ground and says, ‘Yes sorry, I forgot, sorry.’

‘The van is waiting,’ Petre says.

The van is huge and dirty-silver and has tinted windows. The sun is beating down on us, and Magda says the windows are to keep us all cool. She looks at the girls and asks them if they are thirsty.

‘Let’s hit the road,’ Petre says.

In the van there is another man who greets Petre, handing him a can of cola, but he ignores Magda and us, pretending we do not exist. There are three other girls in the back. Petre turns around to look at us all. ‘Not a peep.’

There is barely breath drawn and the van is filled with strained silence, until the man turns on the radio and loud, harsh music pours into the space. One of the girls beside me covers her ears with her hands. I want to, but I think of what Magda said, ‘Don’t resist, it’s easier that way,’ and I allow my head to adjust to the loud thumping. I let it flow through me, like liquid, until I have calmed down.

We drive for hours as the van gets choked with smoke and thumping noise, and Magda’s head lolls against the window. None of the girls make a sound. I want to turn around and look at them; I want to ask them their names. Some invisible force stops me. I wonder if a man came and asked to marry them too. Suddenly the van stops, and when the doors open, we see it’s dark outside and we are in a car park, with cars and trucks, and in front of us is a brightly lit sign, swinging. Again, I wonder at the ghosts that disturb these signs, making them swing, when there’s not even the tiniest breeze.