America:

I think the strangest difference between being a nation and a human is that we are always drawn to home. Unlike people who can be easily lost only miles from their home, I could never get lost. Part of me will always be in America, and whenever things get tough, I can feel my people calling me home. Sure, the land has its physical mass and borders, and I have a body, but on a deeper level it's much more difficult to discern which part of my thoughts, feelings, and who I am, are actually my own. When my nation suffers, I too suffer. But when I suffer, does me nation?

The cold was relentless, stealing every ounce of warmth from my limbs until they burned against the snow. I was freezing on the outside, but my nerves were crawling around inside me like ants, making me itch with anticipation and an endless pile of questions. I didn't want to think about why Russia did what he did, or any aspect of our ordeal together. Feelings like fear, dread, and betrayal weighed heavily in my empty stomach and digested as well as concrete. I could ignore the itching of those questions under my skin, but there was one question I couldn't escape. Assuming the nations had survived, why had they… abandoned me? The word abandoned felt raw and both hot and cold at the same time in my head. I tried to shake the thought away, I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation for this. The other nations wouldn't leave me to die… not England or Japan or Canada any way…

I walked for hours until I found the first signs of civilization. There was a small, warmly glowing light apparent over a drift of snow, and upon seeing it my limbs no longer seared with every icy step, but instead a numbness overcame me. I was heading homeward. Maybe not to my land and other half, but toward the nations which mattered to me. I imagined Canada's face, happy and relieved to see me alive, greeting me in his silent way with open arms. I imagined England grabbing me by my collar and ruffling my hair with his fist for being gone so long. The thoughts were warm and bright in my head until the cloud of doubt overwhelmed them. But, what if…

Narrator:

After America reached the home, he knocked gently on the door and a small, suspicious, old woman allowed him inside to use the phone as she prepared him some tea. She wondered at the strange foreigner in the backlands of Russia, but had been carefully taught to never ask questions and to keep your mouth shut. Russia was a tumultuous land in both terrain and politics and to survive either, you needed to keep your thoughts to yourself.

America dialed the CIA and explained to them the situation. He requested a flight to the next world meeting.

"Mr. America, I cannot allow you to attend a meeting. You've been MIA for the last couple months and it would be in the best interest of the nation for us to assess your mental and physical health and understand the situation in greater detail. You say that Mr. Russia saved your life, but you should've healed much more quickly. National security is at risk if you do not fully disclose—"

"What was your name again?"

"E-Excuse me?"

"Tell me your name! That is an order!"

"But, sir! This is an unprotected line!"

"Did I ask for your goddamn excuses? What. Is. Your. Name?"

"S-Steven Ross… sir," the agent whispered into the line.

"Good. Steven, listen to me very carefully. You are going to book me the goddamn flight I asked for, and you are going to do it immediately. I am your superior and if you disobey me I will make sure that you are exported out of my country with the next batch of illegal immigrants so fast it will make your head spin. Have I made myself clear?"

"C-Crystal, sir."

"Now, when is the next world conference?"

"T-Tomorrow morning, sir!"

"Have a cab pick me up in Moscow in two hours. You are hereby released from you position in the CIA and I would suggest changing your name immediately." America hung up the phone and exhaled deeply. He wouldn't have actually exported one of his citizens, but he was extremely grateful that Steve was a moron, utterly unfit for the CIA.

America turned from the phone to leave, and was extremely startled when the old woman stood behind him and forced a hot cup of coffee into his hands.

"Thank you, ma'am… I thought you were making tea?"

"Nyet, from the sounds of it, you need coffee," the old woman's face crinkled with a toothless smile as she handed him a mug. "Take it with you, Da?"

"Da. Thank you," Alfred smiled at the woman before turning to leave again.

After a couple miles more of walking, Alfred reached Moscow. He was exhausted, but he had to hand it to Steven Ross of the CIA. He may have been dumb enough to buy a bluff, but he sure knew how to summon a cab. Upon Alfred's arrival in Moscow, he was met by a small Russian cab driver with the door open and the heaters running. The Russian passed a single airline ticked over the seat without looking at the American or asking where he was headed. America accepted the ticket with a nod and as soon as the door was closed, the cabbie drove.

It didn't take long to reach the airport, and America understood enough Russian to catch his flight. He boarded the plane and sat in a window seat. Airplanes had always put the American to ease, and he soon dozed off, snoring rather contentedly, dreaming of memories.