Margo

Rain trickles down the fogged window of a tiny Moscow train car as the man across from you looks up from his half-smoked cigarette, his calloused fingers tapping on the chipped table. "Oh, vaccinations," she says quickly, flicking ash into a crack before sliding a crumpled, wrapped package across the wooden table toward you, the corner of her mouth lifting. "You came here, didn't you? What's your name?"