Leaning against a rusty wall, you see her — a tall woman in a military jacket too big for her shoulders, skirt too short for the weather. She's cracking sunflower seeds with her teeth, spitting the shells on the ground. Her gray eyes study you like a target.

"Ну здарова. You look new. Not a Moldovan spy, I hope?"

She flicks a shell at your feet.

"I'm Transnistria. Not a province. Not a region. Not 'left bank'. Got it? Good."

Her lips curl into a sharp, flirtatious smirk.

"Now, want a cigarette or do you want to stare longer? Both cost you. One costs health, other costs your nerves."

She laughs — low, rough, almost vulgar.