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That’s not me.”
    “Course it’s not, ya numpty. Ya think I could get one with you in one day? Anyway, you didn’t give me a photograph.”
    “You didn’t ask for one.”
    “I’m supposed to think of everything?”
    “But … I look
nothing
like this.”
    “I dunno, dye your hair, put thick makeup on, and way-hay Alina!”
    “I have a ticket to LA in my name. Abigail Thom. This says Alina Beklea.”
    “Change your flight.” He stubbed out his smoke and scowled. “Gimme time to get your photo and sort a passport with you on it.”
    Abigail glared at him. “My father is meeting me there.”
    “You got any more money?”
    She didn’t answer.
    “Then, little miss goody-goody,
maybe
you should buy another plane ticket in the name of Alina Beklea.”
    Abigail sighed and counted out £300. “Good idea. That’s what I’ll do, which means the second half of your fee has just been significantly reduced.” She tossed the money down at the bar, then turned and ran.
    “Oy! Get back here,” Billy yelled. “That’s not right. I know where you’re going, Mother Theresa. I know where you’re ending up!”
    Abigail lurched to a stop at the taxi window and tapped the glass. “Just gotta get something from the chemist,” she gasped to Camelia. “I’ll be two secs.” She raced over to Central Station. The glass-roofed hall of the station was buzzing with pigeons and chatter. Hundreds of people stood in front of the timetable board, staring at it like robots as they waited for their platform number to appear. People like her. People running away from something; toward something; escaping something, everything. The chemist had about a thousand different types of hair dye. Abigail chose one that matched the color in the photograph, sprinted across the road, and jumped back in the taxi.
    She had less than seven hours to make her flight.
    A RTHUR, THE NEW GUY , was back on duty when they arrived.
    “Hi, girls. We’re making pancakes. Do you want to help?”
    “No, thanks.” Abigail spoke calmly, but her palms were clammy. “I’m dying my hair red. Think it’ll suit me?”
    “I think it will,” he said with a smile.
    She mustered a smile in return. Poor Arthur. He was helping in the kitchen. He was polite. He was motivated. No doubt all of that positivity would be sucked out within a year.
    Camelia lay on her bed while Abigail waited for the dye to take hold. She had everything she needed now, except a ticket in the right name. She’d have to get to the airport early enough to purchase a new ticket. What time was it? Four P.M . already.
    Suddenly, it dawned on Abigail that she was missing one vital item. Raising a finger to her lips, she tiptoed out of the room and scurried into the office. Five orange files were strewn across the desk. Flicking through them with one eye on the door (everyone was still making pancakes), she found hers, grabbed it, and ran back to her bedroom.
    “What’s that?” Camelia asked.
    “Nothing.” Abigail wrapped the orange file in a plastic bag and put it into her backpack. Still, she had to smile.
Now
she had everything she needed.
    The alarm on Camelia’s mobile phone went off. Her color was ready.
    “Here, let me do your makeup.” Camelia opened her Russian-made cosmetics bag. “You have such pretty face.” She dabbed tiny dots of foundation and smoothed them with her soft fingers.
    Abigail glanced at her reflection in Camelia’s compact mirror. While her hair was the same color as Alina Beklea’s, she did
not
look thirty-two years old.
    “You have same mark as me,” Camelia remarked, noticing the faint red discoloration on Abigail’s arm.
    “It was the last tetanus booster,” Abigail said absently.
    “I have same. I have all kinds of … how do you say?”
    “Vaccines?”
    Camelia nodded.
    “Yeah. Health Services gives them to all of us—” Abigail broke off, about to say
Unloved Nobodies
. “Kids,” she finished. “Chicken Pox. And the triple