We, along with six other people, crowded into the wood panelled elevator car. Olive green carpets complimented the gold finishing on the wall, the warm glow from the overhead chandelier putting me in mind of tasteful ballrooms.

Tasha pushed me along to the back of the cabin, away from the others. People looked at my abaya and hijab out of the corner of their eyes, trying not to stare and failing miserably. I ignored their glances, leaning against the back of the car and fiddling with my fingers.

Society looking at me askance, some with barely concealed curiosity and others with outright hostility, was nothing new. I was used to their shifting glances, about as much as I was used to whispered words behind raised hands and guarded nods when they thought I wasn’t looking.  

It wasn’t that I was completely impervious to the hidden meaning behind such gestures, or that I was so strong I could navigate the world without considering this hateful air. I did notice, and sometimes all I wanted to do was hide—or change who I was. But I refused to acknowledge the whiny voice in my head. My believes were the only connection I had to my country long lost, and I was damned if a few assholes would deprive me of them.

Not everyone was like that, of course. There were people like Tasha and Granny Tonks. Like Jonah now. Nice people who—

Wait…what? Jonah?

Jonah!

My eyes flew open. Tasha must have felt some subtle change in me—or maybe the fact that I was crushing the bones in her hand with my tightened grip—because she took in my face with raised eyebrows.

"Are you alright?"

There were only two people in the elevator now, more having left than gotten on. A middle-aged woman in a sharp pinstripe suit was leafing through a file in her hands, tapping a beige pump on the floor in impatience. Beside her was a young fidgety clerk leaning against the wall, pulling at his tie with nervous fingers. He looked at us with kind, inquiring eyes upon hearing Tasha's question.

"Jonah," I said, still not able to believe what I knew had happened. You bloody idiot! I screamed at myself. How could you have been so stupid?

"What?" Tasha asked, confused. "Please don't mumble."

"Oh God, Tasha, we have to go back," I said, grabbing her hand and looking wildly for the button pad. "We have to go back now!"

"Hey, get a grip!" Tasha hissed as I squashed her foot under a crutch. The file-lady frowned, not able to comprehend someone daring to disturb her. The young man straightened. "We are not going anywhere! What are you talking about?"

"I forgot all about Jonah!" I said, frantic now. Where was the bloody pad? Who the hell was standing in front of it? "I brought him home last night. He was hungry. And now he is all alone and I completely forgot to give him breakfast!"

"Zara, calm down, will you? For heaven's sake!" She shook me. "Ella and I took care of Jonah while you were in the shower. He is fine."

"What?" I said intelligently, staring at her, ceasing my violent thrashing. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I thought you figured it out, seeing as you didn't say anything. It didn't seem important."

"Not important? How could you possibly think this wasn't important?"

The elevator dinged. I looked at the glowing numbers above the opening doors. Nineteen. Twelve more to go—I had always been a genius that way.

The man and woman got off, but not before the woman threw us a look of disdain. The man glanced at Tasha one last time, but left too when she nodded, as if to say, Don't worry. I got this maniac. The streets and our children are safe.

The door closed and the car started up again.

"This isn't the first time you have brought a stray bird home, Zara," Tasha grumbled, letting go of my hand to push hair out of her face. "We kind of know the drill by now. And I figured you had more things to worry about, like this interview."

I forced my shoulders to relax; it wasn’t easy. "Man!" I groaned, wiping at my face. "I can't believe I actually forgot."

"Hey!" Tasha said in alarm, grabbing my hand before I could rub my eyes. "Careful, there! That's my art you are trying to vandalise."

I let my hand drop. "Where is he now?"

"He left." Pause. I waited for more. "We tried to get him to stay, Zara. Believe me, Ella was pretty convincing. But nothing seemed to work. He wouldn’t stay. So we let him go."

I could feel my heart crush. Most of them didn't stay. They were too scared, too afraid I would hand them over to the authorities. Most of them knew only adult abuse and lustful advances. They saw no reason to trust them. I didn't blame them, either. I knew full well what adults were capable of.

But Jonah was just a kid! He was so young. How was he ever going to survive? Three years was not a short time, true, but what of six, seven...ten? What of when he became a teenager? Who was going to help him through those days? Who would tell him that those cool boys were not his friends? Who would tell him those oblivion inducing leaves would kill him?

Would the next time I see him be on T.V.?

"Zara?" Tasha said.

"Tasha." I could only whisper.

She touched my shoulder, then changed her mind and squashed my face into her chest. Chanel flooded my nose. "I am sure he will be fine."

I swallowed, fighting to gather my bearings. "You can't know," I said.

"You can't protect everyone, Zara."

"Why?" I asked. "They don't know what's out there! Why won't they let me help?"

"Hush," she said, planting her chin on my head. "We can only do what we can. And we do, don't we? We always do what we can."

The elevator dinged one last time. I turned my head. The numbers above were glowing as red as a warning sign.

Thirty-two. The interview. That rhyme would have amused me in another time and place.

The doors were opening. My throat was dry. "I can't do this, Tasha."

She knew exactly what I was talking about, and it wasn't children anymore. "You can," she said. Gently, she pushed me away and fixed my scarf. "You are going to kick ass, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

She took my hand and led me out the doors into a spacious white lobby. A trim man with a blood red tie sat behind the receptionist's desk, scratching away on a paper. Funnily enough, he didn't look as dour as I had expected. Must be an anomaly among receptionists, I thought. I wasn't sure if I shouldn't just whip out my phone and call The National Geographic. I am sure they would be interested in this fantastic specimen.

"Back straight, baby girl," Tasha whispered from the side of her mouth. "A kick to the ass from that posture wouldn't be very effective. Take it from an expert."

I straightened my back and raised my head. Alright.

The receptionist looked up when he saw us, teeth showing in a big bright line. He had one gold incisor.

I forced a smile onto my lips.

"Tasha Evans and Zara Mahal," I said. Tasha nodded in encouragement.

The receptionist, Geric, beamed. His gold tooth flashed. "Yes, of course," he said, all politeness, as he stepped out from behind the desk. The front of his formal shoes was a glittering gold too. "Mr. Rodwell is waiting for you. Please—” he swept a hand wide "—follow me."

He led up down a pristine corridor. An obsidian carpet ran the length of the hall, so plush it swallowed my flats with each steps. Landscape paintings hung tastefully on the wall, splashes of colour in an otherwise painfully clean space.

Geric stopped before a fogged glass door—set in a fogged glass wall, for good measure. He turned the handle and stuck his head inside. "Sir? Ms. Evans and Ms. Mahal are here."

"Send them in." There was nothing remarkable about the voice that said this; yet I felt a thrill of apprehension.

Geric grinned at us. "In you go, then," he said. There must have been something on my face, for he added: "Don't worry, he doesn't bite." He frowned slightly. "Usually." Then he turned and left, flashing me one last look.

"You ready?" Tasha asked.

I nodded, firm.

Tasha opened the door and we stepped in.

The first thing I noticed were the glass back and left walls. Sunlight flooded the room. The second think I noticed was how dark the rest of the mahogany interior was. Not dark as in no light, though; rather, dark and brooding, like it crouched low, a patient animal, waiting to pounce and devour the next prey that unwittingly wandered in.

And the last thing I noticed was how beautifully the room complemented the man who sat at its head.

This fingers stoop steepled before a lean face, touching his lips just slightly, as he watched us from above with his aqua eyes—Ella had marbles at home the exact same colour. Just a single lock of dark hair fell across his face, the only thing disturbed in an otherwise unruffled exterior. A granite grey suit and turquoise tie completed his ensemble, casting him in a calm and tranquil light—like a tiger making ready to leap.

When he spoke, I felt the metaphorical tiger shoot through the air and fasten its great jaws around Tasha's neck. "Miss Evans," were the only words that left his mouth, and the tiger dug its claws into Tasha's arms. "How nice to finally meet you."

Tasha obviously didn't notice the wild animal dangling from her neck, for she inclined her head endearingly. "Nice to meet you too, Alexander."

"I don't appreciate strangers using my first name, Miss Evans, if you don’t mind."

Tasha wasn't fazed in the least. Was I the only one who could see the cat? "But I do mind. I am your brother's girlfriend. I am sure I deserve some frankness."

"Not with me, you don't, Miss Evans. And please let's not talk about my brother."

Tasha mock-frowned. "But why ever not?"

"Miss Evans," he said, and suddenly he was on his feet in one fluid motion. I had to blink. "You have wasted enough of my time without going into any more detail than is absolutely necessary, as it is."

"Wasted your time?" Tasha had the gall to actually sound offended. "How do you mean?"

"You know perfectly well how I mean. But apparently this is for the sake of your friend, so I will oblige, if only to get you out of my hair that much faster." He spanned his fingers at the end, then turned to me. I steeled my spine.

"You see, Miss Mahal," he started, "to secure this interview for you, Miss Evans bugged me and my employees for the whole of last night. And when it became clear that I had no intension of granting it no matter how much sleep she made me miss, she—" he pointed at Tasha, who looked ready to stick out her tongue "—saw the need to call my brother to persuade me. And when that didn't work either, dear Miss Evans here thought if immensely necessary to make Christopher call my mother and make her talk to me.

"I confess, Miss Evans," he cocked his head, "I am quite impressed by your ingenious tactics and tenacity. If it had not been for my brother, trust me, today would have come about so much differently."

I was staring at Tasha. "Is this true?" I breathed. I couldn't believe she would do that for me.

"Absolutely not," she protested, slamming a foot on the ground. "It wasn't Chris who called Mrs. Rodwell. It was me." She pointed an angry finger at him. "Give credit only where its justly due," she hissed.

He took a moment to find it in himself to answer. When he did, this was all he said, "I can see why Christopher is so besotted. You obviously lack exactly what he does. Brains."

Tasha looked at him with wide eyes, side-tracked. "Chris is besotted?"

Mr. Rodwell huffed; the lock on his forehead quivered. Then he said, "I told you not to waste anymore of my time, Miss Evans. Why exactly is it that you are still here?"

She was clearly lost in a world all of her own. "I just thought I would make introduc—"

"This is the twenty-first century. I am sure your friend can speak for herself. Unless, of course, she lacks the necessary tools." He looked at me questioningly, taking in my forearm crutches and my attire. I was sure the fact that I hadn't bothered to say a single word since our entry hadn't escaped his notice.

I narrowed my eyes, daring him to go there.

My challenge didn't interest him in the least, though, for he didn't acknowledge it at all. He turned back to Tasha.

"I—" Tasha started.

"Get out." He waved his hand in dismissal.

Tasha looked at me. I nodded. I didn't need her here. I could handle myself just fine. She looked doubtful.

"Now," he said.

And that was all that was needed, even for Tasha. She turned on her heel and left, not forgetting to give me one last thumbs up.

I turned toward Mr. Rodwell, bracing myself on my crutches. He was fingering his lapels, regarding me with hard eyes.

And so, it begins.