The woman’s hands are wrinkled, the skin hanging like melting wax. She holds her hand in the air. “She is this high”

The village seems to be marked by sorrow. The small houses have sagging roofs, as if pummeled by a fist come down from heaven, and the ground is frozen and hard. The men walk with bent-over backs and there are few children here.

“A spiritless place,” Emmy says.

But when they arrive at the address, a neighbor of Chasya’s cousin, the door opens to the smell of apples and cinnamon. The walls are draped with handiwork, and the woman who bustles them into the house — strangers, without an invitation, with no forewarning — wears a headscarf that is embroidered with daisies. The white petals seem to gleam.

Felix blinks. Is this Sarah the matriarch, bringing guests into the house without thought, without plan or …?

It is only when they have eaten and drunk that she asks them. “And now how may I help you?”

“We have come to ask you about your daughter.”

“My daughter?”

“Pesha.”

The woman stares.

Felix takes a deep breath. No one said this would be easy. “A friend gave us your name, and said that you would be able to tell us a story. You see, I am collecting stories of young girls who have been taken or were moved across the world.”

“Are you from the police?”

“No. I am from a newspaper.”

“And will it help my Pesha?”

He hesitates. “No. It will not help your Pesha, but it might help other girls like her. It will be a warning, explain to people that they must take care, they must not fall prey to these traps and ensnarements.”

The woman becomes very still, as if she has moved into a different place, and left her body behind as a marker, to signal where she should return to.

Emmy pokes him.

Felix coughs. The woman blinks.

“I… I am sorry for disturbing you. We will go now.”

One winter’s day, Hans and Bertha go out on their daily walk. The snow is melting and the cobblestones are covered in gray slush. Outside, they meet a little girl.

“Do you have something for me to eat?” the little girl asks them.

Hans and Bertha look at each other. “No,” they say.

“For I am cold and tired and hungry.”

“Where is your home?” Hans and Bertha ask.

The little girl just shrugs her shoulders.