We stepped off the train into falling snow. It came down harder here than anywhere else on our trip, reducing everyone exiting the cars to the same hunched shape. We followed them up a metal staircase over the tracks and into the station. The clock overhead read four. Nothing in the city would open for hours. We found a row of plastic chairs facing the windows and sat beneath the fluorescent lights to wait for morning. ~ Dani listened to an audiobook through one earbud and handed me the other whenever one of our favorite scenes approached. Above us, television screens played looping public-service announcements. The same actors appeared in every video. In one, an old woman stopped her husband from shooting robbers and called the police instead, using a cordless phone with an antenna almost as long as the gun. In another, a punk with a green mohawk abandoned a backpack labeled TNT in the station while a police officer flirted with a woman nearby. Then a Rottweiler found the bomb and saved the day. The videos repeated every few minutes. Eventually, I knew what came next. I spent the remaining hours sounding out the Cyrillic letters on the station signs. Л. L. З. Z. I would find one I recognized, then lose another. Slowly, the symbols stopped looking decorative. They started becoming language. ~ Across from us, another traveler slept beneath the television screens. He sat folded over in the chair, boots off, mouth hanging open. Drool glistened on his chin. When the clock neared six, he woke. For a while, he just sat there. Then he pulled on yesterday’s socks and laced up his tall black boots. He zipped himself into a heavy military-style coat and tightened the collar around his neck. A few minutes earlier, he had looked almost defenseless. Now he looked ready to leave. When the ticket counters opened, he stood and walked toward them. ~ Dani nudged me. “Seven o’clock.” We finally stood, stretched the stiffness from our legs, and stepped outside into the gray morning.