Erica Sinclair - Flight Plan (M/F)

[Jenny_S]

Forced into a marriage she doesn’t want, a young Afghan-American woman turns to Erica Sinclair for protection - but when her friend is abducted in a ruthless bid to find her, Erica must face down a threat that won’t stop until someone’s silenced. In a world that doesn’t care, she refuses to back away from the fight.


If you'd like to read ahead, the full story is available over on my Wattpad site under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing

[LunaDog]

Am i looking forward to this? Well, what do you ALL think?

[Caesar73]

Am i looking forward to this? Well, what do you ALL think?

I surely do too'! The Teaser is so intriguing! I - for my part - can hardly wait!

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, dear @Caesar73, I'm honored having such distinguished board members like you along for the ride.
Buckle up, we'll start tomorrow morning.
My work schedule necessitated shifting the posting of new content from the late afternoon to the wee hours.

[Jenny_S]

The city sprawls in glass and steel beyond Erica Sinclair’s floor-to-ceiling windows, sunlight glinting like a thousand drawn blades.
She leans over her desk, brows furrowed, drilling down into a labyrinthine acquisition contract filled with pitfalls only another attorney might appreciate.

A soft knock at the door.
Through the frosted glass, Erica recognizes Holly Beck, their young receptionist.
“Holly,” she calls, her eyes fixed on the contract again. “If it’s the Anderson brief, just slide it in.”

The door opens halfway.
Holly hesitates, she doesn’t step in.
“Um… Ms. Sinclair?”

That tone in her voice. Erica looks up.
Holly usually walks in with a smile, cheerful and a little quirky, but now she clutches the doorframe, shoulders drawn in, as if holding herself together.
Her purple blazer is rumpled, her knuckles are white.

Behind her, Claire Messner steps into view - a silent affidavit that this carries weight.
Claire wouldn’t allow anyone to barge in if it wasn’t important.

Erica straightens. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s… my sister, Carrie. Well, actually, it’s her friend. A girl named Merjem.”

Erica straightens, her attention caught not by the name, but by the raw, controlled tremor in Holly’s voice.
Her receptionist steps in hesitantly, pushed forward by Claire.
Her tone is strange - careful, as if almost afraid to ask.

Erica gestures to the chair across from her desk, suspicion flickering. “Sit, please. And explain.”

And Holly does.
In halting, urgent sentences, she tells the story of a girl whose parents plan to take her to Afghanistan for a forced marriage.
Who cried in Carrie’s dorm room.
In three weeks, she’s supposed to board a flight to marry a man she doesn’t know.
Doesn’t want.
A girl begging for help.

Erica leans back in her high-backed chair and listens in silence.
Her pen rests on the desk.

The skyline continues to gleam, but she no longer sees it.

She is no immigration specialist and having only three weeks before the flight to Afghanistan means this needs to be processed quickly.

“Please, Ms. Sinclair,” Holly pleads, her discomfort of finding herself between a rock and a hard place obvious. “Carrie wouldn’t have come to me if she didn’t think…”

Erica raises her hand, then says only one thing: “Tell her to come in. I’ll hear what she has to say.”

Forced marriage.
No choice.
No voice.
The thought of it curdles something deep in her gut, the injustice immediate and sharp.

“They’re waiting downstairs. In the lobby,” Holly says, her voice pitched just above a whisper.
She stands, back straight, but fingers fidgeting at her sides.
Despite her nerves, there had never been any real doubt in her mind that Erica Sinclair would at least listen.
That was one of the reasons she hadn’t spoken to anyone else.

Erica looks up, eyes narrowing just slightly.
Beside Holly, Claire draws a sharp breath - a small but telling sign that she hadn’t been in on the plan either.

“So. They’re already here.”
Erica leans forward, fingers steepled.
Not how she imagined spending her afternoon, but urgency doesn’t always knock politely.
“Holly,” she says, her voice calm, cool, edged with dry irony, “please let them know you’ve just cleared my schedule for them.”

Holly straightens as if someone lit a spark under her.
“Yes, ma’am.”
A quick, grateful smile breaks through her anxiety. “Thank you, Ms. Sinclair.”
She practically bolts from the room, phone already halfway to her ear.

Behind her, Claire shifts. “I swear, I didn’t know…”

Erica waves her off gently. “It’s alright.”
Then, she tilts her empty mug toward Claire.
A faint smile touches her lips. “I guess, we could both use more coffee.”

~~~

[LunaDog]

Intriguing start. Full of promise.

[Caesar73]

Dear @Jenny_S you have really an impressive way to kickstart a Story.

So an arranged Marriage it is.
Alas not seldom in certain Cultures still.

We, the Readers are already sucked in by your Magic!

And I, like @LunaDog, am intrigued. Very much so.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, dear @Caesar73, I'm glad that the story got you hooked. In tomorrow's episode we will see what Merjem has to say.

[Caesar73]

Dear @LunaDog, dear @Caesar73, I'm glad that the story got you hooked. In tomorrow's episode we will see what Merjem has to say.

Looking forward to it!

[Jenny_S]

The smaller of Sinclair & Associates' two conference rooms is quiet, save for the subtle hum of the HVAC.
Erica steps in, writing pad in hand, every inch the composed professional - measured steps, straight posture, but eyes sharp as flint.

Carrie Beck rises as Erica enters.
She’s clearly Holly’s sister, the resemblance in the eyes, nose and mouth unmistakable, though Carrie dresses with the plain practicality of a college student rather than a receptionist polished by Midtown’s rhythms.

Beside her, the other young woman rises more hesitantly.
Merjem Nowzad.

Erica takes her in quickly: the high cheekbones, expressive brown eyes, hands folded tightly in front of her.
Her head scarf rests loosely over her shoulders - perhaps a nod to tradition, perhaps a habit half-kept.
Her posture is taut, but her gaze meets Erica’s - fingers worrying at the cuff of her sleeve.
There is fear there, but not weakness.

Erica crosses the room and extends her hand. “Erica Sinclair.”
Merjem takes it, her grip delicate but not limp.
“And you must be Holly’s sister,” Erica says, turning briefly to Carrie.
“Yes, ma’am,” Carrie replies.

Erica sits, legs crossed at the ankle, flipping open her pad.
She doesn’t write.
Not yet.

The door opens behind her.
Holly steps in with a tray of mugs, the smell of brewed coffee preceding her like a peace offering.
Claire follows with Erica’s mug - two Sweet’n Low, a splash of almond milk. No need to ask.
Mugs are set down.
No one drinks.

“Please,” Erica says, motioning toward the mugs. “Make yourselves comfortable. Then start from the beginning.”
She takes a sip from her own mug.

A pause.

Merjem glances at Carrie, who glances at Holly.
Holly opens her mouth. “Ms. Sinclair, as I explained…”

“I’d like to hear it from Merjem herself,” Erica interrupts softly, turning her gaze back to the young woman across the table. “If you don’t mind.”

The silence tightens.
Merjem’s fingers twist the seam of her scarf.
She doesn’t look at Erica directly – yet - but when she does, there’s a storm building behind her eyes.

For a moment, the silence is so complete that the faint ticking of the clock on the wall seems too loud.

Across the table, Merjem Nowzad lowers her gaze, lashes sweeping against her cheeks.
“I don’t know where to begin,” she says, voice small but steady.

“Start wherever you can,” Erica replies, not unkindly.
Her pencil remains poised but unmoving.

Merjem nods once, more to herself than anyone else.
“I’m nineteen. My parents came here from Afghanistan in 2003. I was born here in New York. I’m a citizen.”
That last part is said with deliberate emphasis, as if it might shield her.
Erica notes it.
Merjem is an American - this will make certain things easier for her.
But obviously not everything.

“They’ve always been traditional. Conservative, but not… cruel.”
Merjem hesitates. “Until now.”

Claire shifts subtly against the back wall, arms folded. Holly leans in, a protective big-sister expression ghosting her features.

“A few months ago,” Merjem continues, “my uncle from Kandahar came to visit. He brought someone with him. A man. A… suitor.” Her voice flattens. “I was never told this was happening. Just that I should be respectful. Smile. Dress appropriately. And then they started saying things like, “He’s from a good family”. “‘This is what’s best”… or “We’ve agreed.””

Her eyes flick briefly to Erica.
“I told them no. I told them I wanted to finish college, that I didn’t want to get married yet. But it didn’t matter. My father said…” her voice breaks, but she pushes through, “…that it wasn’t my place to decide.”

Erica’s jaw clenches subtly, but she says nothing.
Her pen moves now.
Short strokes.
Keywords.

“He said we’d be flying to Kabul in three weeks. The ceremony has already been arranged. I’m going to live there with my new husband. No return ticket.”

No return ticket - Erica’s grip tightens slightly around the pen.
That phrase - so final, so damning - carries more threat than a shouted ultimatum.

Merjem lifts her chin then - defiance through the fear.
“I don’t want to go. I don’t want to marry a stranger. I don’t want to disappear.”
Her voice cracks on that last word, and for the first time, Carrie reaches across the table, squeezing her friend’s hand.

“I didn’t know what else to do,” Merjem whispers. “Carrie said her sister works for a lawyer who… sometimes helps people.”
She looks at Erica now.
Eyes wide.
Daring to hope.

“I thought about disappearing. Just walking out of class and not going back. But then what? I have no money. I don’t know anyone. I’d just vanish anyway. I need help, Ms. Sinclair. I… don’t know what to do…”

~~~

[LunaDog]

Sadly this sort of thing carries on far too often in this world. I'm a great believer in that a marriage only ever truly works between two people who genuinely have love for each other and WANT to be together.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, my sentiments exactly.
I'm glad that I was allowed to make my own decision with whom I want to spend my life with.
We will see, if Merjem will be just as lucky.

[Caesar73]

First? The Picture captures the Atmosphere of the Meeting perfectly. The nonverbal Communications says enough. How Merjem looks up at Erica. The way she looks at Erica.

In my Opinion you have a real Talent dear @Jenny_S to describe the different Levels of Communications: The verbal, and the nonverbal Communication.

The Situation Merjem finds herself into, is to my Knowledge not so unusual: Merjems Parents seem to have granted her Daughter some Leeway to pursue her Dreams. But only to a certain extent. The Facade ripples. And behind it, we see the ancient Traditions at Work, a Culture who sets Women close Boundaries.

One has only to look at Afghanistan to guess, what Fate Merjem would await in Afghanistan. The Taliban Regime has robbed the Women of their Rights. What did Meryl Streep say? A Cat has more rights in Kabul than a Woman.

That Merjem does not want to bow and travel to a Land she does not even know? It is only too understandable.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73, a terrifying situation for a young woman at the mercy of her parents. Let's see if there's a a way to help her.

[Jenny_S]

Erica breathes out slowly.
She feels something cold and electric coil in her chest.
It’s the same sensation she gets before a high-stakes trial - the moment the pieces shift and lock into place, and she knows: this will not be easy.
But it will matter.

It’s as if her father’s voice is in the room with them - low, steady, warm.
It was him who passed his life lessons on to her, and one of them was that there’s nothing more noble in this world than to help those who cannot help themselves.
He wrapped all these lessons up in one creed which he had a jeweler engrave on the back of the Rolex dive watch he gifted his daughter on the day of her graduation from Harvard Law School: Stand for something or fall for anything.
She made a promise - to him and to herself - that she would live by that creed. Come hell or high water.

Erica closes the pad softly.
“I’m not a cultural expert,” she says carefully. “But I know how to fight. And we will not let you disappear abroad.”

The silence in the room shifts.
A tiny drop of hope suspended in the air like mist.

Erica pushes her chair back just enough to uncross her legs.
The energy in the room has changed.
No longer a consultation - this is now a case.
She cannot - will not - let this girl fight this battle alone.

“You said you’re a citizen, born in New York,” she begins, eyes locked on Merjem. “At nineteen, you’re legally an adult. That means no one - not your father, not your uncle, no one - can force you to go anywhere, do anything, or marry anyone against your will.”

Merjem blinks, lips parting. “But… he said if I disobey - if I shame them - he’ll cut me off. He said I’ll be dead to them.”

Erica nods once. “That may be his belief. His threat. But legally, he has no control over you anymore. He can guilt you. Intimidate you. But drag you onto a plane? That qualifies as abduction. A felony.”
She leans forward slightly.
“Do you have a passport?”

Merjem hesitates. “Yes. My mom keeps it in a drawer. But I know where it is.”

“Good,” Erica says. “My advice is this: you’re going home. Quietly. No drama. If anyone asks why you’re late, say you were at the library, working on a class project. You’re going to pack the essentials. Grab your birth certificate, passport, Social Security card if you have it, school ID, anything important. Then meet me at the address I give you. I’ll take care of the rest.”

Holly’s eyebrows lift. “Someplace… like a shelter?”

“No.” Erica’s voice is cool. Steel veiled in silk. “Something better. Discreet. Somewhere they won’t look, and where no one will give her up.”

She writes her Upper West Side address on the back of a business card and - after a brief second of hesitation - slides it across the table. “I’ll be there, waiting for you.”

She still finds it hard to open up.
Despite being in danger, Merjem is a stranger - and Erica is fiercely protective of her privacy.
Letting Merjem into the apartment feels like a line she's not ready to cross.
Picking her up in the lobby at street level - that's close enough for comfort.

Carrie puts a protective arm around Merjem’s shoulder. “You sure you’re okay to go back tonight?”

“We can’t procrastinate this,” Erica says. “If they sense something’s wrong, they may act before we’re ready. I want you out before they even know there’s a problem.”

Merjem looks stunned. “Are you sure this will work?”

Erica stands, moving around the desk.
She doesn’t touch the girl, but her presence is grounding.
“Yes. Absolutely. Merjem, they might have raised you to obey, but you are the Captain of your soul - and you already have the law on your side. All you need now…” her voice softens just slightly, “…is the courage to walk out that door and not look back. To save yourself.”

A moment passes.

“I can do that,” Merjem says quietly.

Erica nods. “Then go. Don’t tell anyone. Not your mother. Not your siblings, if you have any. Just walk out like you do when meeting with friends.”
She turns to the group.
“When she’s safe, I’ll call her parents. Let’s see how brave they are when they’re facing the realities of the law.”

Merjem rises, posture firmer now, her brown eyes steady with new resolve.
“I will be there, Ms. Sinclair. Thank you so much… I…”

“It’s alright, Merjem,” she says softly, putting her hand on the girl’s arm. “You’ll be fine. I promise.”

Now Carrie stands as well, and followed by Holly, the girls walk out of the conference room.

“Thank you,” the receptionist says silently as she passes her boss.


~~~

[LunaDog]

“If they sense something’s wrong, they may act before we’re ready. I want you out before they even know there’s a problem.”

This is, on the face of it, a very sensible suggestion that Erica, an extremely intelligent lady possessing a real degree of 'street-wisdom' don't forget, is proposing here. Possibly the only feasible strategy available.

So just why can I not shake off the sense of inevitable foreboding here?

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, as one of the most faithful followers of the Ericaverse, you KNOW something is going to happen. Stay tuned, my friend.

[Jenny_S]

When the door closes behind them, Erica doesn’t sit.
She just stands there, the notepad still in her hand, her gaze fixed on the space they left behind.
The courtroom of public opinion hasn’t opened yet.
But her case has.
Three weeks to dismantle a plan built on silence.

The countdown has started with no margin for error.

“Poor girl,” Claire whispers. “I can’t even imagine how she must feel.”

“Me neither,” Erica says in a low voice. “Let’s just hope she really sticks to the program.”

Turning toward the door, she says over her shoulder “Claire, I’ll be out for the day getting everything in motion for Merjem. Please clear my calendar for the next two days. You can reach me on my cell phone if…”

“The office is on fire.” Claire completes the sentence. It’s what Erica always says.


~~~


As soon as Erica merges into late-afternoon traffic in her black Volvo, her eyes flick to the rearview mirror, then down to her phone where she scrolls one-handed through her contacts.
Merjem isn’t just a case.
She’s a rescue.
And rescues require allies.

Her first call goes out to Sophie van Rey, former Manhattan ADA, now the Mayor's Deputy for Public Safety.
They haven’t spoken in a while, but Erica knows Sophie.
This call won’t need a handshake.

Sophie picks up on the third buzz. “Erica,” she says, flat. “What can I do for you?”

Erica keeps one eye on the road, voice low and controlled.
“I’ve got a nineteen-year-old girl. Afghan-American. Born here. Her parents are planning to fly her to Kabul in three weeks for a forced marriage.”

“Go on.”

“I’m moving her to a safe location. If things go sideways - if her parents try to track her or make trouble - I need a firewall. TSA, NYPD, Homeland Security. I need the whole family flagged in the system. Quietly.”

A pause. Only cell phone static hanging between the two women.

“Forced marriage…” Sophie repeats, her tone shifting slightly, calculating. “Get me names. Photos, if you can. I’ll make a few calls.”

“Thanks. If they escalate - retrieval attempt, intimidation, bullshit police reports - I want it clear I called you first.”

Sophie snorts lightly. “Always on the safe side, right?”

“Back to the wall,” Erica replies.

“Alright. Consider it done.”

Erica disconnects and doesn’t slow down. T
here’s another person to call - Candice Summers. WNYC News anchor. Investigative bulldog.
Erica’s media ace.
She hits the contact.
The phone rings.
Three times.
Four.
Then voicemail.
“You’ve reached Candice Summers. Please leave a message after the beep.”
Beep.

“Candice. It’s Erica Sinclair. I’ve got a forced marriage case I might need your ears on. Call me, please.”
She hangs up and exhales slowly.
The defenses are forming.
Now, just a few final calls to secure a safe place - and the pickup.


~~~


Outside her West 72nd Street apartment, Manhattan pulses on - electric and indifferent.
Inside, Erica moves like a clock winding itself.

The apartment might smell like lavender, leather, and wood - comforts she enjoys.
But today, it feels like a fortress.

She locks the door behind her, drops her briefcase by the hallway table, and is immediately ambushed.
Spot and Tiger come bounding from the bathroom like twin missiles, tails high, paws skidding on the hardwood.
“Have you been in the laundry basket again?” she mutters, crouching to greet them.
They purr, bodies weaving between her legs.
Their trust is unconditional.
Erica envies that sometimes.

“Okay, okay. Dinner first.”

Their dishes clink. Kibble pours. In the kitchen, Erica scoops Greek yogurt into a bowl, adds berries and oats - just enough to quiet her own appetite before the next round of planning.
She eats standing at the counter, phone already in hand.

First call: Scarsdale.
“Sunrise Manor, this is Elvira. How may I help you?”

“Erica Sinclair. Could I speak to Carol, please?”

Moments later, Carol Albright’s warm voice filters through. “Ms. Sinclair! What a surprise.”

“I’m not calling about my aunt today,” Erica says. “I need help with someone else. A nineteen-year-old girl. Born here, but her Afghan parents want to send her overseas for a marriage she doesn’t want.”

A pause.

“Oh my God…”

“She’s respectful, soft-spoken. Needs to vanish for a bit. I was wondering - could you maybe use an intern? Admin work, resident support?”

Carol doesn’t answer right away. Erica imagines her biting her lip, doing mental math.
“She’d need a room?”

“Yes.”

Another pause. Then: “We could arrange that. If you trust her, Ms. Sinclair, I’d be happy to help. Poor girl.”

Relief blooms in Erica’s chest.
She exhales quietly. There’s no place for emotion right now - but gratitude simmers beneath the surface.

“I do. And thank you, Carol. I can drop her off tonight. I just have to check one other option first - something a little more rural.”

“There’s another?” Carol asks, surprised.

“I hope so. Again, thank you so much.”


~~~

[LunaDog]

Excellent idea. The very last place that Merjem's parents would think of is a care home, out of the city.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, Sunrise Manor is one of two possible places Erica has in mind.
I tomorrow's episode we will learn more.

[Jenny_S]

Her next call reaches out further North, to Margaret Henshaw at Ironwood Pastures, the horse ranch where Lea, Erica’s Cleveland Bay mare is stabled.

“Ironwood Pastures, Henshaw!” Margaret’s slightly rough voice comes through.
From the sounds in the background it seems that she is somewhere out on the property on her 4-wheeler.

“Margaret, it’s Erica Sinclair.”

“Hi Erica! Lea’s doing fine but missing you.”

“I could be dropping in tonight,” Erica says. “But I might have someone I’d be bringing along.”

“Tell me,” Mrs. Henshaw says. She must have stopped her ride as the ATV’s engine seems to be idling lazily now.

Erica tells Margaret about Merjem and her problems.
A mother herself, she will understand Erica’s concerns and maybe the dangers the girl is in.

“I’m sure Sarah won’t mind if we put the girl in her old room for a while. But she knows this isn't a vacation, right? We need the work ethic.”

“I’ll tell her. It’s either Ironwood or another place where she’d also need to work for her boarding. But she can look at it like we’d be offering an internship. And anything’s better than a one-way flight to Afghanistan.”

“Absolutely. She’d be safe here. I mean, who would look for her up here in Bedford?”

“That’s what I was thinking as well.”

“Let me know how she decides and we’ll take it from there.”

“Thanks, Margaret. I’ll be in touch!”

Erica ends the call.

Dishes rinsed.
Yogurt bowl in the washer.
Cats purring on their jungle gym.

Erica steps into her bedroom, swapping her skirt and heels for jeans, sneakers, and her soft, worn leather jacket. She zips it halfway just as her phone buzzes.

She answers instantly.

“Erica Sinclair.”
She half-expects silence. Or worse - a strange voice answering Merjem’s phone. But it’s the girl.

“It’s me. Merjem,” the girl says, a barely controlled, breathless sound. “I’m just outside your place.”

Erica’s pulse steadies as she exhales quietly. “Good. Step into the lobby. I’ll be with you in two minutes.”

Erica glances at the kittens rolling across the living room floor in a blur of fur and claws.
Spot pounces on Tiger, who squeals and spins away, tail lashing.
Oblivious.
Blissfully untouched by the messier world of human decisions.

She smirks, then pats herself down.
Keys.
Phone.
Wallet.
That’s all she needs for now.

“Be good, my lovelies,” she murmurs, locking the door behind her.
The deadbolt slides into place with a solid click - a comforting sound, like the seal of something protected.

The elevator ride is quick, but her thoughts move faster.
Strategy.
Contingency.
Exit routes.
Like laying out a war plan before her inner eye.


~~~


When the doors glide open with a soft chime, Merjem is already there.

She stands in the lobby like a shadow with a pulse - stiff posture, hands buried in the pockets of a faded, soft denim jacket.

Her eyes find Erica's instantly.
There’s hope in them.
But also something else.
Shame.

“Are you okay?” Erica asks, stepping forward.
She sees it instantly - something’s wrong in the way Merjem stands too still, like she’s waiting for a verdict.

Merjem shifts her weight, not answering at first.
Her gaze darts toward the doors, then back.
No bag.
No backpack.
Nothing.

“I couldn’t bring anything,” she says finally, pulling something from her pocket. “Just this.”
Her passport.
She holds it out like a confession.
“If I had gone for anything else, they’d know. I had to leave everything. I don’t even know where my parents keep my birth certificate.”

Erica takes the passport gently, tucking it into her pocket.
“That’s alright,” she says, voice even. “This will get you identified. We’ll get clothes and whatever else you need on the way.”

She gestures to the phone in Merjem’s hand.
“Can it be tracked?”

Merjem nods. “Yes. It’s linked to my father’s iPad. And this.” She rolls up her sleeve. A slim smartwatch gleams on her wrist.

“Switch everything off, please. I’ll take care of these for you.”

No argument.
No hesitation.

Merjem knows that those devices can give her location away at the push of a button.
She powers them down, hands them over without a word - like giving up pieces of herself.

Erica drops the electronics into her mailbox on the wall of the lobby and shuts it with a metallic, irreversible snap.
“You’ll get them back once the wind dies down. We’ll get you a new phone later. One only you, Carrie, and I will know.”

She places a hand on Merjem’s shoulder, guiding her gently toward the stairwell that leads to the underground parking garage.
“Let’s go,” Erica says, her tone low but firm. “Your new life starts now.”

Like it’s already decided - because it is.


~~~

[LunaDog]

God, i remember the 'good old days,' and like i've said before i AM an old git, being in my 60s now, when one could dis-appear. Nowadays your 'phone, your car and various other devices can give away just where you are and where you've been. What would organisations like the Gestapo or the Stasi give for such devices to have existed when they were active?

And they call it 'progress?'

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, I guess, technology can always be used for good or evil.
Helping Merjem start a new life basically means helping her drop "off grid", at least for a while.
In tomorrow's episode we'll see where Merjem wants to go: Sunrise Manor or Ironwood Pastures.

[Jenny_S]

The black Volvo hums softly as it weaves out of Manhattan’s grid and onto the long arteries leading north.
Sunlight slants low across the windshield, gilding the street signs.
The city begins to fall away behind them - replaced by stretches of suburban calm and skeletal trees lining the highway.

Erica checks the rearview mirror, then glances at Merjem in the passenger seat to her right.
The girl stares straight ahead, her hands in her lap, jaw tight.

So much fear she isn’t letting show.
Legally, she's free.
An adult.
But emotionally, she's still a teenager forced to make choices grown adults would hesitate over.
“Where are we going?” Merjem asks.
Her voice is soft.
Surprisingly steady.

Erica watches her for a moment.
She’s holding herself like glass – delicate, brittle, just barely holding together.
So Erica keeps it simple, solid, and true.

“I’ve got two options lined up for you,” she says. “One’s a care home in Scarsdale. Elderly residents, quiet environment. The other’s a horse ranch outside of Bedford. Big skies, early mornings, real work. No one’s going to be looking for you in either place.”

She pauses.
Then adds, “You’d have your own room. Meals. Some responsibilities. Let’s call it an internship.”

Merjem turns her head slowly. “You trust the people there?”

“Absolutely,” Erica says simply.

And for a beat, the silence in the car feels almost like peace.

In the hush of the car, broken only by the rhythmic thrum of the road, Merjem stares out the window at the fading light and passing trees.
Her thoughts twist like threads she can’t quite hold.

“I’m not sure if I’m good with old people,” she says eventually, voice quiet but clear. “But… I like horses. I can’t ride, but they have those big, beautiful eyes.”

Erica smiles slightly, her eyes flicking from the road to the girl beside her.
Beautiful big eyes. Just like yours, she thinks, but doesn’t say.

“So, Ironwood Pastures it is,” she says. “You’ll like it there. The woman who runs it - Mrs. Henshaw - is as tough as saddle leather, but she’s got a big heart. Knows horses better than some people know their kids.”

Merjem nods, trying to hold on to everything Erica is saying - names, impressions, tone.
She feels like she’s stepping into a new language, a new world, and she doesn’t want to misstep.
She already knows her parents will see her as a disgrace.
A daughter gone rogue.
But right now, the only person she doesn’t want to disappoint is the one driving this car.

“You’ll be staying in her daughter’s old room,” Erica continues. “Sarah works at a DIY store in Bedford and has her own apartment. You’ll fit in. And you’ll learn a lot.”

“I never thought I’d become a cowgirl,” Merjem whispers, still watching the scenery blur past.

Erica chuckles softly. “Wrangler,” she corrects. “Cowboys work cattle. Wranglers care for horses.”

“Oh.”
Her smile is small but real - the first since she left the city. “Looks like I’ve got a lot to learn.”

Erica checks the mirror, signals right, and takes the next exit.
“We need to get you some things.”

Digging into her jacket pocket, fingers fumbling, Merjem pulls out a couple of crumpled bills and some coins.
She lays them on her palm like an offering.
“This is all I have,” she whispers, ashamed. “I can’t even pay for toothpaste.”

Erica glances at her, then back at the road.
“This one’s on me,” she says simply, but with an encouraging smile. “Call it my good turn to get you started.”


~~~


They pull into the parking lot of a quiet mall, where the air smells faintly of asphalt and fast food. Erica parks, kills the engine, and slides out of her seat.
“Come on,” she says. “Let’s go shopping.”

Inside the superstore, bright lights buzz above their heads as they roll a cart through the aisles.
Erica moves efficiently, scanning labels, checking sizes.
Bit by bit, the cart fills with her new life.
Toothbrush. Socks. A rain jacket.
Things no one should have to flee without.

Merjem tries to keep up, glancing at each item and silently calculating.
Her brow furrows a little deeper with every addition to the cart, but she doesn’t say anything.

Then they reach the electronics aisle.
“They’re not iPhones,” Erica says, gesturing to the display, “but they’ll keep you connected. Grab one.”

Merjem hesitates, her hand hovering near a budget-friendly Chinese model.
Before she picks it up, Erica places a hand gently over hers.
“One rule,” she says, voice low but firm. “Do not call home. Not now. Not for a while. I know it feels wrong. But don’t let guilt trick you.”

She holds Merjem’s gaze.
“They don’t feel bad about sending you to Afghanistan without your consent. Don’t feel bad about saving yourself.”

Merjem swallows and nods. “Yes, ma’am,” she says softly.

By the time they reach the checkout, the cart is full - two large sports bags’ worth of essentials, from shampoo to sports bras, lip balm to leather gloves.
At the self-checkout, Merjem stares, wide-eyed, as Erica swipes her card without blinking.

“You need something to wear,” Erica says, shoveling the items into the bags with practiced efficiency. “That’s just the way it is.”

~~~

[LunaDog]

“One rule,” she says, voice low but firm. “Do not call home. Not now. Not for a while. I know it feels wrong. But don’t let guilt trick you.”

Sounds easy doesn't it? And perfectly logical, it's by far the most sensible thing to do. But, for this young girl, only just out of childhood don't forget, it's a hell of an ask, even if it's the correct thing to do.

And before we condemn the parents TOO much, we must remember it's the world of their culture, the world that they have been bought up in, possibly the ONLY one they know.