"Please let me through. Please, ladies, I need to get out of here," Nasrin shouted in her most formal Russian. No one appeared to notice the young lady. Nasrin stopped. She heard a distinct voice from her past. "Nasrin? Nas-onka? Is that you, is that my Nas-onka? Oh, my yusuhka! Look at you! Look at you all grown up!" Nasrin ,flash drive forgotten in her fist,stood amid the towering Russian dancers unable to see just few feet in front of her. She peered into a sea of colored sequins, theatrical make-up, and feathered head-dresses. "Natasha?" She heard herself whisper. Her mind traveled back to Tashkent in 2005. She was crying for her adopted mother. She was saying good-bye in the dusty airport and boarding a private jet. Natasha was dressed in a gray dress with an embroidered brown jacket. "It is for the best, you need to go with the Madonna.In America you will have a wonderful life." "Natasha? Is that you?" Nasrin said. "Yes, Nas-onka, it is me." The dancing girls parted and Nasrin faced Natasha, dressed in the brightest sequins and feathers in the group of dancers.