All That Shines 

The Jewish ladies always call her Alana. Which is fine, really. She doesn’t overly care if they get her name right. The important part is that they have the supplies she needs and heavy-duty gloves so she doesn’t burn her skin on the toxic bleach that she uses to scrub their toilets. The important part is that, at the end of eight long hours, they put some cash in her hands that she can use for groceries and rent and Sofiya’s clothes.

It’s just a tiny bit irritating, this change of name. “Alina,” she says each time. She has seen her name in Mrs. Sontag’s phone, spelled correctly, though Mrs. Sontag still WhatsApps her each week with a hi alana, are we on for thursday?

Maybe it’s autocorrect. Maybe it’s that, in these Jewish homes, they don’t see anything beyond each other.

But a part of her wants to rail at it, to demand, I have lost my home already, have lost my country, and now I must give up my name, too? Kyiv burns, and Alina and Sofiya are its embers, drifting into a new abyss.