A black fly has found its way inside the ambulance. I’m not surprised—have I mentioned the bugs in Moscow? My God. You know how it is in these territories that freeze solid during the winter months. Our parents once had the clever idea to send us to some outdoorsy girls’ camp on the shores of Lake Winnipesaukee in New Hampshire for the month of August, and it’s a wonder I had any skin left by the time we went back to school. Anyway, the thing buzzes deliriously around Gregory’s head, simply out of its mind with the delicious scent of newborn baby. I swat and shoo and look helplessly at the nurse. She shrugs her shoulders and checks her watch. The ambulance swerves and lurches and turns some hairpin corner, and without prior warning screeches to a stop. I expect we must have reached a traffic signal or something, but no. The front doors open and slam; the rear ones swing open. We’ve arrived in Rizhskaya Square, just outside the Rizhsky railway terminal, from which our train will depart in half an hour.

The nurse clambers out first and extends her hand.

“I don’t think there’s a wheelchair for you,” I tell Iris.

“That’s all right. I can walk.”

“Are you certain?”

She rolls her eyes at me—just as she used to do when we were children—and takes the nurse’s hand. I tuck Gregory like a football in the crook of my right arm and jump out ahead of her to take the other hand. Kedrov appears around the door, lugging a pair of suitcases—mine and Iris’s. Iris turns back to the open doors of the ambulance.

“My bag, Ruth. With Gregory’s things.”

I search about the back of the ambulance and discover a small, soft valise, which I hoist over my elbow. Together we make a slow procession toward the Roman arches at the entrance of Rizhsky Station, which looks something like a church, only grimier. Behind us, a tram rattles along its tracks. A bus growls past. The air is thick with exhaust and cigarettes. I concentrate all my attention on Iris to my left and Gregory on my right arm, and I hope to God I won’t let either of them drop to the pavement.

The train is short—only three carriages—and pulled by a steam engine, just like the old days. The boiler hisses and the air reeks of coal smoke. Kedrov leads us to the carriage just behind the engine and helps Iris climb the steps. We have a compartment to ourselves, a sleeper, more comfortable than I expected. The nurse takes Iris’s temperature and blood pressure and makes some notes on her chart, which she hands to Kedrov before she steps, with an air of relief, out of the compartment.

“No nurse?” I ask Kedrov.