Foreign Soil, Familiar Shadows

I hurry down the stairs, hearing the vultures just beyond the apartment lobby doors. Thankfully, I know all too well how to slip out without being noticed — and the back alley routes to make it to the train station.

I continue past the lobby, through a door to the basement. Once I'm down in this cobweb- and rat-infested room, I make my way to the corner, shoving a shelf out of the way to reveal a grate. I slip the knife out of my waistband, wedge it between the concrete floor and the edge of the grate, and force it up revealing the entrance to a tunnel.

Back in the day, one of Bucharest's leaders had a vision — a sprawling network of underground tunnels that would one day heat the city. That dream never came to pass. Now, the tunnels lie forgotten beneath the surface — dark arteries of the past repurposed to suit the present.

Over the years, they've become home to those the city has pushed to its edges: addicts, fugitives, the homeless. All carving out their own kind of existence in the darkness.

It's not a place anyone chooses to live, not really, but it serves its purpose. I've used these tunnels before to disappear, to avoid detection when things get too risky.

I drop down into the tunnel, replacing the grate over the entrance as I slip in. The air down here clings to my skin — heavy, damp, and laced with the metallic sting of rust and rot. My boots splash in shallow puddles that never seem to dry — and other things I dare not guess. The walls sweat with decades of condensation, stained with graffiti and mold in colors I can't name. The scent is overwhelming: a heavy blend of mildew, sour body odor, and something faintly chemical that burns the back of my throat.

I keep my hood low and my footsteps soft, passing the residents of this place. No one looks up, but I feel eyes on me. Down here, curiosity can be fatal. No one questions my presence. I adjust the strap on my bag and keep walking, counting turns and cracks in the walls like breadcrumbs. This isn't the first time I've slipped through the underbelly of this place — I have the tunnels memorized using a system of numbers and landmarks.

After some time, I find my way to a door that spits me out into a subway, somewhere along the tracks. I don't think anyone ever uses this door — it drops you right onto the rails — but for me, it's exactly where I need to be.

If I take this train, it'll bring me to the border between Romania and Serbia. Right at the crossing, there's a small, abandoned airfield. God — at least I hope it still is.

I'm not planning on buying a ticket. But if there's a fire along the tunnel's route, they'll have to stop the train in place for safety until it's cleared. And in these underground tunnels, I can buy everything I need: a small amount of gasoline, some cloth to use as a fuse, and of course, a lighter.

I set everything up far enough ahead of the door that they won't find it. I check the train's timing — it should be rolling through in about twenty minutes. For a train that fast and heavy, I need to give it a five-minute buffer to stop safely. I set the fuse to burn for about eight minutes. That gives enough time for the smoke to spread and the call to come in for an emergency stop — which should land the train right about where I'm hiding.

Thankfully, it actually works. The fire only burns for maybe ten minutes. There isn't anything else for it to spread to, so it burns out on its own. No harm to anyone.

While the train is so nicely stopped, I grab hold of the back of one of the cars and climb aboard. Once inside, I hide in the bathroom until I feel the train begin to move again. After that, it's just a matter of shuffling between cars at each stop to avoid the ticket agents.

At some point, sitting on this train, staring at the scenery flashing by and rocked gently by the movement, my mind begins to wander. I fade off into a memory:

Bucky and I never called for each other when we went out. Drew too much attention. Plus, there were eyes and ears everywhere. We kept our distance, walking separately, close enough to see each other, far enough that no one knew we were together.

But at some point, we found ourselves closing the gap. I'm not exactly sure when it happened, we eventually walked side by side. What I do remember was the first time he held my hand.

We were walking back from a street market. It gets a little hectic in the back alleys: no traffic signals, no lanes or order. Just people racing around, yelling across to one another. The smell of grilled food from stalls filled the air. The sound of engines, motorcycles and mopeds, zipped by.

He carried the bags, his left arm holding books and a few things for dinner. He never let me carry anything. Told me, "You pick, I carry." He was an honest, old-fashioned guy. Made sense, considering he was about a hundred years old.

"Hey, have you ever had plum dumplings?" I asked, breaking the silence.

"No."

"Let's get some then," I said, pointing across the way to a bakery. "Come on, they're good." A little hop formed in my step as I hurried ahead.

Beep beep — a honking horn and someone yelling in Romanian pierced the crowd. I turned to see a moped coming right at me. Too late to react. It was too close.

I braced for the hit, knowing I couldn't make it out of the way — but suddenly, I was yanked back by the waistband of my jeans, slammed into what I thought was a wall.

But it wasn't a wall — it was him. Bucky. I felt his breath on the back of my neck, looked up, and there he was, just inches away.

"Watch where you're going!" the driver yelled as he zipped away.

"Stay close. Be careful." Bucky's flesh hand, the one always hidden under leather gloves wrapped around mine. He led me behind him through the alley, and eventually down to the subway. He never looked back once. But every so often, the wind would blow, shifting his brown hair so I could catch a glimpse of his ears just the slightest bit red.

I think we both came to like this. I felt safe in that firm hand of his. Even through the gloves, I felt the warmth. My hand was swallowed up by his, I couldn't even see past my wrist. I never realized how big his hands were until now.

It was nice. I hoped we'd get to do this again. I carved that moment into my memory like it was stone so I would never forget it.

Because if I remember it, then I can be his memory, too.

"Final stop. Please exit the train."

Snapped back to reality by the sudden announcement, I step off and begin my lovely five-mile walk to where I think the airfield still is.