Backpacks and Bra Straps
officially exit Russia and be processed into Kazakhstan. From the officials’ faces, it was clear they didn’t see western foreigners often, and their inexperience slowed the whole group.
    “Kazakhstan. Country number four,” Bree said enthusiastically beside me, when we returned to our seats.
    “Isn’t it crazy to think that a country so big can be so unknown?” Turning to look at us through the crack between the seats, Ammon said, “I mean, this is the ninth largest country by area, out of nearly two hundred. And did you know that it’s ranked as the largest landlocked country in the world?” He paused. “Wow, guys. Check it out. Now that I’m finally out of Russia, I can start to think straight again.”
    “I don’t know about that,” Bree said, tapping him on the shoulder and eyeing a pretty girl sitting kitty-corner behind him. “Look, Ammon.”
    “What?” he said, leaning his head into the aisle.
    “That chick is totally checking you out. And she’s hot, too.”
    “Oh, whatever. I don’t need to hear that crap.”
    “No, really.” She urged him to look over his shoulder. “I saw her checking you out when we got off at the border crossing, too.” He turned slowly to get a glimpse of her, and then quickly turned back and stared straight at the seat ahead of him. He had seen the same thing I’d seen – the young woman was looking him straight in the eye. Lucky bum, I thought, but just watch him screw this one up, too. I laughed to myself, as we’d just spent the last few hours listening to him whine about how he kept failing with Russia’s fairer sex. Probably it was because they made him feel more emotional than he was used to feeling. They awoke that cold heart in his chest.
    At the next stop, we made an effort to introduce ourselves to her. The risk of not being understood was high, but that didn’t hold Bree back. Not one little bit.
    “My brother’s name is Ammon,” she said, practically thrusting him at her. She was slender and about five foot three – the same height as the three of us. Her waist-length red hair complimented her rather intimidating blue eyes. She sported a stylish pencil skirt and was surprisingly well dressed for such a long bus journey.
    “Hi. I’m Ammon, like salmon. The fish, you know? The name rhymes with salmon…” he trailed off awkwardly.
    Bree gave him an ‘Oh my gosh, help me’ look that nearly made me snort, though I managed to hold it back for his sake. But the woman gave him a sweet smile and they started up a casual conversation.
    Boarding the bus shortly afterwards, Bree scowled and gave him a healthy shove as soon as we were out of sight. “What did you do that for?!”
    “I don’t want to hear it, Bree.”
    “Ammon, rhymes with salmon…” Bree mimicked as she slapped her forehead. “I just hope her English isn’t good enough to understand what you said.”
    “No, she probably did. She seemed to be pretty fluent,” he admitted.
    “It’s a good-enough icebreaker,” she continued, “but not when you’re trying to impress a lady. Now the only thing she’s going to remember you by is a slimy fish. Silly man,” she said, rubbing the top of his head and screwing up his ponytail.
    “See!” he said, smacking her hand away, “That’s what I’ve been telling you. I’m terrible at this. That’s why I need to flee Russia and its women as soon as possible.”
    “Well, she’s half Kazakh, so now what are you going to do?” she asked.
    “Just kill myself, I guess.”
    Despite Ammon’s embarrassing attempt at a pickup line, he made a miraculous recovery. Under much pressure from Bree, our acknowledged romance expert, he even managed to snag her phone number before the end of the bus ride. Happily surprised by his friendly manner, she asked if there was anything she could do to help and then offered to meet us the following morning. As much as we wanted an excuse to play matchmaker, the fact of the matter was, we really could use

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