Chapter Eighteen
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Strange, how quickly a month could pass.

Summer in Romania turned out to be quite pleasant. It wasn't an overbearing heat like I was used to in New York, humid and sweltering. Maybe it was just a cooler season, but it was nice to leave the windows open at night, let the breeze run through and carry in with it the sounds of rustling leaves, quiet streets, music playing from some far-off location, thin and eerie.

We passed the days keeping our heads down. When our savings got low, Dad did under the table work — some of its construction, sometimes delivery or other small menial tasks. Helping old Mrs. Florescu carried her groceries up five flights. Or fixing little Luca's flat tire. Patching up a ceiling or fixing clogged pipes. There was always a little something to do, just enough to carry us by on tips and favors.

No steady jobs. Nothing that required names and addresses, bank accounts, or background checks.

It was quiet. Lonely. My bedroom, such as it was, was little more than a closet with a tiny window, just big enough to fit a bed and a small chest of drawers. I had little to put in them anyways, yet as the days passed, I found myself filling them with small things. First some extra clothes, here and there. A trinket or two. Anything I couldn't store on a windowsill or under the bed. Enough room on top for a lamp. I tried to read at night, even if it made my head hurt. But I found I preferred just looking out the window; Dad insisted we paper all of them, so at night I kept them open, to feel the air move, to see anything — trying to make out the stars, or watching the lives of others through their windows across the streets.

There wasn't much to do. I found myself floundering at first; with nowhere to run, nowhere to go, and Dad insisting I did not find work (he could take care of us, I didn't need to do anything), I was often left to my own devices. I never had much change, but I liked to wander through the markets, before that started to bother me. Sometimes I'd see something that reminded me of Peter, or MJ, or Steve, and my heart ached. This terrible notion that they would love this piece, and that I should get it for them, only I can't because I'm in a far-off country and they have no idea where I was.

That I was hiding from them. From everyone. With the noted goal of never being found again.

It made it hard to sleep at night.

The park was better. More open, with less reminders of home. The market allowed me to practice my Romanian, but I honestly preferred to be on my own. Knowing I couldn't make any real connections here, in case we had to uproot ourselves and take off again. In the park, I wasn't so glaringly reminded I didn't belong here, that I'd never belong here. I could sit in the shades of trees and pluck flowers. Make daisy chains, a childhood activity I never got to embrace when I was young. Nice to finally indulge.

Sometimes I spotted a phone in someone's hand. Saw them typing away at a computer in a cafe. Had to resist the urge to grab it, to call Peter, to send an email. I knew he would still be looking. So was Steve and Sam, who I was far more likely to see.

But they hadn't appeared yet. And I had to continually resist the urge to make contact. I couldn't. I shouldn't. That life was over now.

It ruined my appetite. Dad always insisted I eat, but I'd noticed he'd been giving me larger portions. Maybe I was starting to lose weight, and it had become noticeable. I wondered if he'd bring up the topic, but he hadn't. Maybe it was obvious. Maybe it was awkward. I certainly wasn't going to bring it up myself.

Just do my best to swallow the food placed in front of me and fight off the sensation of being literally sick with guilt later.

It got a little easier as time went on — not by much, but noticeable after a few weeks. My room felt a little more like my own. Daisy chains decorated the headboard and the window in lieu of curtains, drying delicately. A small collection of books in Romanian stacked next to the lamp. A line of pretty rocks I found lined up on top of the chest. A little bee carved of wood I found in a stall that I couldn't resist.

And the compass. The one Steve gave me. I'd found it in my jacket pocket, having completely forgotten I'd kept it there. It clattered against the dog-tags, also from Steve. Dad never wanted them back. A part of me felt guilty for bringing them here, as if it were something that might damn us, a hint of our past that we pretended didn't exist.

"Mia," Dad said one morning, after serving me several rounds of eggs and toast (the cheapest to buy). "I need you to go into the market and buy some things, we're almost out of plums."

I still went by Mia here, mostly because it was such a short name and already common here. Dad went by Iacob now, and looking at our fake IDs said our last name was Cel Tradat. Not that we ever had to use it much, outside of our neighbors. Mia cel Tradat certainly had a ring to it, at least. Easy to remember, and so very far from my real name.

"You and your plums," I muttered, but it was with an affectionate half-smile. Shopping for groceries was less bothersome, but I was surprised he was asking me. "What are you up to, then?"

"Some work down by the train station." Dad replied, with a jerk of his head in its general direction. "You remember Kronid from the bar? He needs some help loading his truck with his grandmother's things."

"Probably because you're the only one he knows that can deadlift a couch." I pointed out.

"Yes, but he doesn't need to know that." Dad replied, bopping me on the shoulder teasingly as he passed into his chair. "I'll give you a list and some change."

"I can pay for it myself!"

"Sure you can," Dad replied around a mouthful of cereal, before pulling out a small wad of pills and a handful of coins from his pocket. They clinked onto the table in front of me. "But you're not going to. Save it for yourself, we have enough."

Enough. Barely enough. Just enough to scrape by and nothing more. But I didn't argue, simply taking the cash and counting it out, deciding to give Dad the right amount of change when I got back. I knew he wasn't doing it out of pity, but I still hated feeling like a charity case. Even if we were, truly, living so beneath the poverty line as to be entirely invisible. As was the point.

"And if that turnip boy talks to you again, tell him I have a gun," Dad added after I'd pocketed the money.

"Dad!"

"What? It's true. I've got knives, too."

"Are you talking about Radut?" I asked, scowling. "He sells tomatoes, not turnips. And he's fine. He talks to all his customers."

"He likes talking to you a lot more."

I could hardly restrain an eyeroll. "He's just a boy, Dad. Being friendly means he gets more tips and customers."

"Yeah, I'm sure that's all he wants," Dad replied airily, as he started fiddling with the radio dial. The television was unreliable, and the radio could pick up a better signal for news and music. It was not enough of a distraction for this conversation, however.

"It's a good thing I didn't tell you about Ursule then," I muttered as I headed for the door.

"Ursule?" Dad still caught it, his head picking up. "Who's Ursule?"

"No one!" I chirped, and before Dad could begin an interrogation, I ducked out the door. "Gotta go, love you, be back soon!"

"I said no dating!" Dad's voice called, muffled past the door after I'd slammed it shut. In truth he had nothing to worry about, but maybe I delighted a little too much in keeping him on his toes. I had no intention of dating anyone, or even contemplating it — in this economy? With my life, and everyone tangentially related to it, on the line? No thanks. But it was nice to talk to people my own age sometimes. Get coffee from the kiosk girl with the pretty smile, or the tomato boy with the nice tan. Being as bored as I was here, freaking out Dad once in a while was just one of those simple joys in life.

The market was only a few blocks away. Bags in one hand and list in the other, moving carefully to avoid pickpockets, I started collecting this week's groceries. Some lettuce here, a loaf of bread there. Stopping and making chit chat occasionally with the vendors who recognized me — keeping to pleasantries but never truly telling them much. Just enough for them to think I was.

A brief pitstop at the coffee kiosk, where Ursule already knew my order by heart. "I don't even know why you come here when you like tea instead. You know I'm not even supposed to serve tea, right?"

"And yet," I said, raising my eyebrows as I took a sip. The money I paid came from my own funds, rather than what Dad gave me. Just in case.

"Very funny," Ursule shook her head. "You know, you still haven't told me where you're from."

"You already guessed by my accent," I reminded her, taking another sip and observing the flow of traffic. It was an overcast day, a little chilly but not unseasonal for summer. The warm tea seemed like a perfect mix.

"Yeah, but America doesn't narrow it down, it's huge!" Ursule said, gesturing dramatically with her hands. "Big and huge! Like your lies!"

She was being deliberately melodramatic, not a real accusation. I laughed. "I'm not lying!"

"Yeah, like I'm supposed to believe for a second that coffee makes you sleepy. Or that you've spent more time traveling the world than living at home. How do you go to school? Isn't that illegal?"

"I'll see you later, Ursule!" I said, deciding maybe I should end this conversation before it got too deep. Ursule was more skeptical than most, and had a lot of questions for Mia cel Tradat and her unconventional childhood, traveling the world with her nomad father, never living in one place for too long. It helped that I'd actually seen enough of the world to be able to talk about it convincingly. I just had to leave out all the exploding boats and bridges.

I didn't fail to notice that Dad had kept tomatoes (and turnips) off the list, even though they were in season and very cheap right now. Still, the plums were right next to Radut's stall, and he beamed when he saw me coming, waving his hand. I felt bad that I wasn't going to buy some of his tomatoes — maybe I should, just leave them on the counter to taunt Dad a little. But that would also mean using up what little money we already had.

While I warred between my spiteful and reasonable natures, I did the decent thing and said hello anyways, picking over the plums. "Your gardens still going strong?"

"Oh, better than ever!" Radut grinned, hands on his hips. Tall with a mop of curly red hair, he wore an infectious grin flecked with freckles. He had an effusive nature about him, easy to talk to. He reminded me a bit of Matt sometimes, a thought that had my stomach clenching with guilt. "Maybe even the best season we ever had. My dad thinks its good luck, after last year."

I chuckled ruefully. "Yeah, I bet. Can I have these ones?" I asked to the plum seller, before turning back to Radut. "So, any other news, then?"

"Not that I can think of. Oh! Your accents getting better,"

"Oh, thank you!" I said, with my best Romanian pronunciation and wondering if maybe Dad was right. Radut probably was flirting, and I was my usual oblivious self. Shit. "You've helped me practice."

Radut flushed, doing a little shoulder shimmy with pride, and as we continued to speak, I noticed he had a newspaper rolled up and tucked into his apron. I could only make up half of a word or two, a big bold headline over a large picture I couldn't make out. But what I saw wasn't enough. It took me by surprise. "Does that say 'bomb'?"

"What?" Radut blinked, then looked down when I pointed. "Oh, this? I just picked it up this morning, it's nothing."

"But what does it say?" I wanted to know. I hadn't had the chance to catch the news yet. "Is it from today?"

"I — yes, but you don't have to worry about it, nothing in Romania —" Radut insisted, and there was something shifty about him now, stepping closer to the stand so the newspaper was blocked by the boxes of tomatoes. "So, Mia, I haven't seen your father lately, how's he doing?"

It was such a sudden shift in conversation, I didn't know what to make of it. Radut stood there, too awkward, trying to smile through what was clearly growing nervousness. Shifting too much, eyes flicking away constantly. What the hell was going on?

"He's fine," I said, before going back to the point. "Can I just look at the front page, please? I just want to see what it says."

Radut's smile started to crack, to flicker. "Mia, I don't think you do."

"Why not?" I demanded, and something tickled at the back of my mind, a pricking of the hairs at the nape of my neck. Something in his tone. All wrong.

"Because —" Radut's eyes glanced away again, and this time I got the feeling he really was looking at something. I turned my head, as he said, "It's not good news."

"What could it possibly…" I began, but my sentence drifted as my eyes caught something on the other side of the marketplace. I thought I saw someone — a brief shadow, someone tall — a woman, I thought. Dark skin and entirely bald. Not entirely unusual in Bucharest, but there was one key detail that made her stand out.

Her eyes, meeting mine, before she was gone again.

I swallowed hard. "What's going on?"

Radut looked like he was going to say something else, but by that point, freaked out and getting scared, I'd lost my patience. "Show me the goddamn newspaper, Radut, or I'll just find it somewhere else!"

His pause was short, but the way he looked at me — forlorn, almost sad, in a way that struck me — seemed to last a long time. But then he capitulated, his hands shaking slightly. And as he draped the newspaper across his array of tomatoes, I saw why.

There, above the centerfold, was a massive splash of bold letters, written in Romanian: WINTER SOLDIER WANTED FOR THE BOMBING OF VIENNA.

And right beneath it, a huge blown-up picture of grainy security footage, with a section cut out and zoomed in to the right. A tall, dark figure walking through a narrow corridor, a square of light catching the edge of their face as they looked over their shoulder. Loose dark hair tucked under a cap. Indistinguishing clothes, baggy, but not enough to hide his face.

Bucky Barnes.

Dad.

I forgot how to breathe.

I could feel Radut looking at me, but I couldn't tear my eyes away from the image. "I'm sorry," he said, and I could just see his hands above the fold, pressed against his stomach, twisting and worrying. "I'm sure it's just a misunderstanding. A lookalike. You know?"

I felt sick, even as I looked up at Radut, confused and alarmed. I could see it in his eyes, how he didn't believe his own words. He was scared. "Why hide it from me? Why pretend everything was okay?"

"I don't know," Radut admitted, his shoulders drooping in shame. "I thought — I hoped it wasn't real. Is it?"

"He didn't do this," My tone was curt and cold.

The bombing might be real, but I knew Dad wasn't involved. He couldn't be. He was with me here, and there was no stretch of time where he could've made it to Vienna and back without me noticing.

Who would bomb the UN? Why frame Dad? I had no clue, but I had a sickening sense it had something to do with Rumlow. Hunting us down, and using everyone else to do it.

Radut flinched, as if my words had cut him. "I know. But Mia, If I could recognize him, then it won't be long —"

I realized what he meant, already backing away. I would've turned and ran, but saw Radut's expression change, right before I bumped into someone behind me. I wasn't paying attention, was already halfway to apologizing, when a large hand came down on my shoulder.

And stayed there.

"It's alright," the man said in English, a broad accent, plainly American. "Let's take it easy now. We can do this nice and quiet, and no one has to get hurt."

I didn't even look around. I just saw Radut's face, how all the blood had drained from his face. Did he understand what was said? Did he know what was going on?

I was still trying to make sense of what was going on. Trying to put it all together in my head. Wondering where Dad was, wondering if he's seen or heard the news yet. Wondering if I should just go along and give in and do my best not to scare Radut or any other poor civilian here.

Until I remembered who I was. What I was.

Not to myself.

But to everyone else.

"Do you hear me?" The man said at my ear. "Give your boyfriend a nice smile, okay? Let him know everything's fine. Now give me your hands before I put you on your knees."

I heard a click — handcuffs, as if those could hold me. But nevertheless, I gave Radut a watery smile, which he did not return, stock-still like a deer caught in the headlights. He was scared, and I didn't think any smile was going to make things better. I just shook my head at him as I slowly raised my hands. In Romanian, I said to him, "I'm sorry you have to see this."

Radut blinked, confused. I didn't give a chance for either of them to ask what I meant, before my rising hand brushed against the jacket of the man behind me and grabbed the lapel.

Then, with all my strength, I flipped the American over my shoulder and slammed him into the ground in front of me.

He didn't have a chance to grab the gun in his shoulder holster before I stomped on his hand and delivered a quick blow to the face. Instant knock-out.

Around me, pedestrians cried out in shock and backed away, causing a ripple effect of shock and confusion. Radut still stood across from me behind the stall, having stumbled against the rear banister. Eyes wide and staring, jaw open in shock.

I grabbed the firearm and took it without thinking. I didn't know what the American agent planned to do with it, but I preferred I had it rather than him or anyone else shooting blindly into a crowd. As I stood, pinning the holster to my belt, I said to him, "When they question you, just tell them the truth. You won't get in trouble. I promise, you'll never see me again."

It was all I had to offer. I didn't want Radut or anyone to end up in jail because of me. Radut didn't respond, just continued to stare. I wanted to say more, but something caught my attention. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted people rushing in, pushing through the crowd. Big, burly men and women, dressed plainclothes but in obvious leather jackets to hide the bulk of their weapons, looking like they were about to draw on me.

Shit.

So all I could say was, "I'm sorry."

Radut's eyes flicked between me and the approaching agents, struggling to get through the crowd, their voices already shouting at me to stand down. His gaze returned to me, suddenly bright and bold. "Just go. Run!"

I didn't wait another moment. The turn of the heel, and I was off, sprinting as fast as I could through the crowd. There had been an open pocket, roughly circular, around Radut's cart where I had downed the agent. The civilians saw me coming and immediately parted like the Red Sea.

It gave me just the slightest of a head start.

I'd made it about fifty feet when I heard a crash behind me, a cacophony of shouting and noise. Worried for Radut, I looked over my shoulder, and saw that his tomato cart had been overturned — in front of and on top of the agent's path, a gory splatter of tomato juice and innards everywhere. Radut's arms up in the air, alarmed and shouting incoherently, as if completely oblivious. His gaze, briefly, catching mine.

I could only offer one last smile before vanishing into the crowd.

My feet pounded the old streets, all cobblestone and broken pavement. Ducking and dodging through people, before forcing myself back to a frenzied walk as soon as I was out of sight of the agents. I had to get away, but running would just make me look obvious.

Then I saw Ursule's kiosk and got an idea.

I was already taking off my jacket when she spotted me, her brows furrowing. "Mia, what's wrong? Did you see what happened over there? I heard an awful commotion."

"It's probably nothing," I lied, and so terribly that Ursule's eyebrows shot way up. I tossed my jacket onto her counter, saying, "You mind hanging onto this for me?"

"What? Why?"

I couldn't think of a lie fast enough. "I'm being chased."

"What? By who?"

Already my throat had gone dry, but I didn't stop moving, rounding around her cart so I was on the other side, and hopefully out of direct line of sight in case the agents saw me coming down the way I had come. "Have you seen the news yet?"

Ursule turned as I moved around, her frown deepening. "No, why?"

"Well, you should," I said, and just as I heard a rush of incoming footsteps, several pairs of boots now slick with tomatoes. Heart pounding, I pressed my back against the side of her kiosk, using one wall to hide me as they stopped on the other side. They must have spotted the jacket.

"Hey, you!" One of them shouted at Ursule in English. "The girl who left this coat. Where did she go?"

I couldn't see Ursule's response, only her voice as she called, "She went that way!"

I leaned over and peeked out, watching as the group of four tore off in another direction, the one Ursule was pointing in. Completely random. Wild goose chase.

"Thank you," I said, barely a whisper.

Ursule whipped around to face me. "Are you going to tell me what's going on?"

But I shook my head, no time. I just dug through my pockets and slammed some bills onto her kiosk. I didn't know why. Completely idiocy, running on auto-pilot. To show my gratitude? All those tips I should've added more to?

"I'm sorry," I said. "I have to go."

"Wait!" Ursule said, holding out her hand before I could take off again. "Are you going to be okay?"

I thought about it for a split second. "Probably not."

I hated how true that sounded. My utter pessimism. It sure as hell wasn't what Ursule wanted to hear, but I didn't have time to assuage her. "Just stay safe, okay?" Was all I could say, before taking off again.

I hadn't had much of a life here, but it had been something. I'd made friends — just two. But enough to hurt. I knew I'd never see either of them again. I worried what would happen because I happened to step into their lives. And I didn't have that kind of time to worry. Not when my own life was at risk. Not when I had to prioritize.

I could only hope that it would be my own life I was ruining.

I had to get home. I had to make it back before they did.

Before they got to Dad.

But when I reached our apartment building, I found it swarming with police. Big black square vans, like the kind used by banks. Or prisons. Sawhorses being hastily set up on the streets to control traffic. Regular cops shooing away pedestrians while the big boys behind him were already preparing to enter.

The whole block, cordoned off.

I was too late.