The plane touched down in Vladivostok without incident. It was a rainy Russian day, yet the temperature was moderate. Bart-chan was taken by ambulance to a nearby hospital to be treated for her burns, while the other Simpsons and Selma arranged for a limousine to transport them.

"Hello, Mr. Burns," Homer spoke into a pay phone. "We've run into some medical complications, so I may be a week or two late coming back from my trip to China."

"I understand, Simpson," said Burns from ten thousand miles away in Springfield. "Take as much time as you need. But as soon as you return, I want you to clean out your desk."

"Will do, Burnsie," said Homer casually. "I suppose it would get a little dusty after not being used for so long. And one other thing. Does the medical plan cover emergency treatment in other countries, like, say, Russia?"

"The Benefits department is better suited to handle that question," Burns replied. "Let me transfer you." Lowering the receiver, he pushed a button on his desk that was marked, HOLD FOREVER.

"Smithers," he said to his right-hand toady, "I fear that Homer Simpson has defected to the Soviets."

"The Soviet Union no longer exists, sir," Smithers reminded him.

"Oh, pish-tosh," Burns retorted. "They're only biding their time."

Outside the Vladivostok Airport, Lisa looked at the dank street before her and swallowed. Drops of water - cold water - were landing everywhere, forming vast puddles.

"What's the matter, Lisa honey?" inquired Homer.

"The rain," said Lisa through clenched teeth. "I don't know how the Russians would react to seeing a boy walking around in a dress."

"Let me put my skirt over you, to keep you dry," offered Selma.

Lisa shuddered. "Some things are best left to the imagination," she remarked.

"You could put this newspaper over your head," said Homer.

"Dad!" Lisa chided him. "A homeless man is using that as a blanket!"

"Oh, yeah." Homer carefully laid the paper over a half-asleep lush on a bench. "Sorry, comrade."

"BUUURRP," the lush replied.

"Let's go inside and buy Lisa an umbrella," Marge recommended to Homer.

Minutes later, Lisa climbed into the back seat of a Russian cab, carefully folded her new floral umbrella, and shook it vigorously to release the water droplets. She was joined by her mother, Selma, and Ling, who was whimpering hungrily.

"Take us to the Gogol Memorial Hospital," Homer instructed the cabbie next to him.

"Da," the grizzled man replied.

The cab departed, and wound through miles of Russian road.

"Are we there yet?" Homer asked the driver.

"Da."

They sped through the city for another hour.

"Are we there yet?"

"Da."

"I don't think he speaks English, Dad," said Lisa.

Two cabbies and hundreds of rubles later, they finally walked up to the glass doors of the Gogol Hospital. "Have you noticed how they turn all their R's backwards?" said Homer as he gazed at the inscription on the stone wall. "It's like Toys-R-Us runs the whole country."

"That must be one of the concessions they made for losing the Cold War," said Selma.

The reception area was manned, or rather womanned, by three husky-looking females. While Marge and Homer approached the first window, Selma carried Ling up to the second, and Lisa hurried to the third, bursting with curiosity.

"Is your hospital named after Nikolai Gogol, author of Dead Souls and The Inspector General?" she inquired.

"Be quiet, little girl," the receptionist answered in broken English. "You scare away the patients and the staff."

"I need formula for my baby," Selma told the stone-faced woman before her. "Can you sell me some?"

"In Soviet Union, formula was free, but we had none," the woman replied. "Now we have formula, but it is not free."

"Can you sell me some or not?" asked Selma impatiently.

"Sorry, we are all out," was the receptionist's answer. "Try the store of drugs."

Homer and Marge, meanwhile, were about to learn that more than just the language barrier complicated their efforts to locate Bart-chan.

"She's a Chinese girl, about five or six," Marge told the woman in the window. "She has long black hair."

"What is her name?"

"Er...ah..." Marge was at a complete loss.

"What is her relationship to you?"

Marge could only gape stupidly. "Answer the lady," Homer urged her.

"Psst." They turned. Lisa was motioning to them.

The girl braced herself with an arm over her umbrella handle as the others gathered around. "I have an idea," she announced confidently.

"Tell us in pig Latin," said Homer warily. "The KGB may be listening."

"Mom, get Bart's clothes out of the trunk," Lisa ordered.

Marge did so, and Lisa disappeared into the ladies' room. A minute passed and she emerged as Lisa-kun in Bart's garb, her own dress and necklace draped over her arm.

"You don't have to do this, honey," said Marge. "We can find another way."

"Technically, Bart isn't even related to us anymore," said Lisa-kun insistently. "Dad's insurance won't cover him unless we lie about his identity."

"Well, all right," said Marge with hesitation.

"Those bureaucrats won't suspect a thing," Selma remarked. "Trust me, I work at the Department of Motor Vehicles."

Once again they approached a receptionist, a different one this time. "Hello, I'm Marge Simpson from Springfield, USA," Marge introduced herself. "This is my husband Homer, my sister Selma, my niece Ling...and my son, Bart."

Lisa-kun smiled warmly.

"We're here to see our little girl, Lisa," Marge continued. "She was burned in an accident, and the ambulance brought her to your hospital."

The receptionist punched a few keys on her computer. "I see no record of a Lisa Simpson," she stated. "Can you describe her?"

"Er, she's five years old, and has long, straight black hair," Marge lied. "Her face is all bandaged up, but I assure you, she looks like us."

"A girl with bandages came in four hours ago," said the receptionist. "We do not know her name. Maybe she is your Lisa Simpson."

"Let us see her," Marge requested.

A nurse arrived and escorted them up several floors and through a long corridor. "The doctors are working on her now," she cautioned them before taking her leave.

The room reeked of medicinal compounds. They found Bart-chan lying on a bed that was much too large for her, with a white-uniformed medic on either side. The bandages had been pulled away from her face and chest, revealing darkened skin punctuated by boils and blisters.

"Omigosh," mumbled Lisa-kun, struggling not to throw up.

One of the doctors, a woman with short red hair, scrutinized the visitors, paying special attention to the Chinese baby in Selma's arms. "You are not what I expected," she said in moderately skillful English. "Are you her adoptive family?"

"No," replied Marge. "We're her natural parents."

While the female doctor stared at them incredulously, her colleague, a bearded man with glasses, gestured for them to enter. "She has suffered serious burns, but she is expected to recover," he informed them.

Bart-chan's weary eyes widened when she saw her boy form standing over her. "Lisa?" she muttered. "What the hell..."

"Shh," Lisa-kun stopped her. "I'm Bart. You're Lisa. Any questions?"

"How long will she have to stay here?" Homer asked the bearded man.

"Ten days at a minimum," the doctor replied, "before she can be safely transferred to a superior American hospital."

Homer heard a gasp of despair rise from Bart-chan's charred lips.


Two weeks later, Homer timidly stepped forward to Mr. Burns' desk.

"Have a seat, Simpson," the old wraith prodded him.

Still nervous, Homer lowered his posterior into the plush office chair.

"Am I fired?" he asked.

"Oh, don't be a silly willy," said Burns dismissively. "When has firing you ever made anything better?"

Homer sighed and relaxed his shoulders.

"The insurance company told me the sad tale of what befell your daughter Lisa during your return trip from China," Burns related. "I sympathize completely, and I want to offer my support as she endures the difficult process of recovery."

"Gee, thanks," said Homer, his mind set at ease.

"In fact, I'd like to visit her personally," Burns went on. "I understand she's being cared for at Shelbyville Hospital."

Homer's heart leaped into his throat, then leaped from his throat into his brain. He couldn't think of a single excuse, convincing or otherwise. "Uh...uh..." he mumbled.

"Why, there's no shame in it," said Burns reassuringly. "Shelbyville has the finest hospital in the region. I often go there myself. I'd never go to Springfield General for anything more serious than pneumonia. I can't stand that fool Hibbert. 'You have six months to live. That is, if you can call it living. Heh heh heh heh heh.' God, I'd like to stand by his deathbed and chuckle as he expires in agony."

"Er, I don't think Lisa would respond well to a visit from you," said Homer deliberately. "She still sees you as a blackhearted scoundrel, in spite of all my efforts to convince her that you're really a generous, caring demigod."

"Well, then, perhaps this gesture on my part will bring her over to your way of thinking," said Burns.

I'm counting on you, brain, thought Homer.

Can't think, replied Homer's brain. There's a heart lodged in me.

"You hesitate," said Burns with an air of menace. "You seem determined that I should not see Lisa in person. Perhaps she isn't at Shelbyville Hospital after all. Perhaps you fabricated the story of her accident in order to extend your tour of Asia. Then again, perhaps I'm merely spouting paranoid theories. I get that way when I miss my afternoon nap. Forgive me, Homer."

The message was veiled, yet loud and clear. I am so fired, Homer told himself.


to be continued