Danielle was with us. Not sitting with us on the plane. She was back in economy. (I booked us first class, since we weren’t traveling with a kiddo this time, even though Kyle said it was a waste of money that we could use to bribe whomever we have to bribe in Russia.) I felt bad we were in first and she was in economy, but she said she was fine. Not every consultant does this, but Francie told me this was the extra service that made her work special. She must have buried this cost in her fees, because we weren’t billed for her ticket. Which I guess means she worked on other adoptions while we were there, which is fine. I knew she was staying a few days beyond us coming back to America. It would be great to have her there with us. It would make things go easier.

Kyle read during the flight and listened to an instructional audio on beginning Russian. We’d already been cautioned repeatedly on what we can say and what we can’t say. We’d been warned especially to speak English and let the translator do her work in Russian so there are no gaffes or misunderstandings. Kyle told Danielle he was studying Russian, just to use at the hotel, and she smiled and told him practically everyone at our hotel would have a command of English. He murmured softly to himself, repeating the words he learned. I put on my own headphones to block him out and listened to the last three albums by an artist who asked me to write a song for him, thinking of you. Of writing a song for my new baby, just like I did for your sister.

We changed planes in London—it was about a four-hour flight to Moscow. We had a short layover. Kyle studied his Russian. Danielle was on her phone a lot, looking worried. Was something wrong? Maybe she was trying to iron out some detail. Maybe it had nothing to do with us but with another client. I was constantly telling myself to calm down. I was calmer giving birth to Julia, which makes no sense—birth is way harder than this.

I got up to go to the restroom, and when I was washing my hands, a woman stepped up next to me at the sink.

She looked at me in the mirror. Our gazes locked.

“Go home,” she said in lightly accented English. Quietly. It was a whisper.

This was not what anyone expects to hear from someone at an airport sink. I said, “What?” I thought she must be talking to someone on the phone. You know, with an earpiece in.

“Go home, Mrs. Pollitt. Go home and write a song.”

My hands were dripping. I froze. “What?”

“Go. Home.” Now I heard a little blade of threat in her tone.