Zeba Heather

Chapter 2

The city did not soften itself for Zeba Heather, nor did it seem to notice her at all, which in some ways felt worse. Everything happened quickly, engines growling, voices rising and falling, street lights blinking and buzzing overhead as though they were faulty.

She walked without a destination, because standing still felt like an invitation to be questioned, and questions were rarely harmless. Her shoulders were slightly hunched, her scarf pulled higher, not out of fear exactly, but out of habit, the kind formed by years of learning how easily a body could be singled out when the posture did not seem right.

She passed streets that smelled of food so rich it made her stomach twist painfully, oil and spice drifting from carts where people queued, money already in their hands. Laughter came from a bar doorway where music thumped loudly enough to vibrate the pavement. A woman stood outside smoking, her makeup was heavy, her heels kicked off and held loosely in one hand. Zeba noticed how she leaned against the wall with ease, how her eyes followed every passerby without appearing to look at anyone in particular. It struck Zeba then that watching was its own kind of work.

As she walked farther, the city’s character shifted. The crowds thinned but did not disappear, and the lights grew harsher. Neon signs flickered above narrow shops and darkened doorways. A group of men laughed loudly near a parked car, their voices were sharp and careless. Zeba crossed the street without breaking stride, keeping her pace steady.

She had been walking for what felt like hours when the fatigue finally crept into her legs. The excitement that had carried her through the first stretch of freedom dulled into something heavy, something that settled into her bones.

Her scarf no longer kept out the cold, and the scrap of bread she had saved was long gone. She slowed down, then stopped near the mouth of an alley, pretending to check her pocket while she gathered herself.

That was when she became aware of the women.

They were not clustered together in any obvious way. One leaned against a lamppost a short distance away, scrolling through her phone with long, painted nails. Another sat on the low wall outside a closed shop, adjusting the strap of her bag. A third stood near the alley itself, her jacket unzipped despite the cold, her eyes were alert but unreadable. Zeba did not know how she knew they were connected, only that she felt it in the way their attention shifted almost imperceptibly toward her, then away again, as though they had already assessed her and filed her somewhere in their minds.

She took a step back, then another, uncertain whether to continue down the street or turn away. The woman by the alley noticed. She tilted her head slightly and spoke, her voice calm, almost casual. “You’re lost.”

It was not a question.

Zeba hesitated, then shrugged, forcing herself not to sound defensive. “Just walking.”

The woman studied her more openly now. She was older than Zeba by at least a decade, with sharp cheekbones and eyes that missed very little. Her hair was dyed deep red, though the roots showed dark beneath. She smiled, but there was no warmth in it, only curiosity. “You don’t walk like you’re heading somewhere,” she said. “You walk like you’re avoiding something.”

Zeba felt a flicker of irritation, followed quickly by caution. “People walk all kinds of ways.”

“That they do,” the woman replied. “But not like you. Not out here and not this late.”

Before Zeba could respond, the woman by the lamppost looked up from her phone and joined them, her movement was casual. She was tall, her posture relaxed, her expression amused. “Selina,” she said, nodding toward the red-haired woman. “You’re scaring her.”

Selina snorted softly. “I’m talking to her.”

The taller woman turned her attention to Zeba, her gaze sweeping over the worn jacket, the scuffed shoes, the scarf pulled tight around her neck. “How old are you?” she asked.

Zeba stiffened. “Old enough.”

Selina’s smile thinned. “That’s not an answer.”

The third woman, who had been sitting on the wall, rose and joined them, her movements slower, her face softer somehow. “Easy,” she said quietly. “She’s cold and tired. Anyone can see that.”

Zeba did not know why, but it was that voice that made her relax just slightly. Not enough to trust them, but enough to stay.

Selina folded her arms. “What’s your name?”

Zeba hesitated again. Names felt powerful and they stuck. But she also knew that silence could be just as dangerous. “Zeba.”

“Zeba,” Selina repeated, tasting it. “I’m Selina. That’s Tasha,” she added, gesturing to the taller woman, “and that’s Maris.”

Maris gave Zeba a small nod, her eyes kind but tired. “You got somewhere to be tonight, Zeba?”

Zeba glanced down the street, then back at them. The truth hovered at the back of her throat, heavy and risky. “No.”

Selina’s eyes sharpened. “Are you running from something?”

Zeba met her gaze, steadying herself. “Aren’t we all?”

Tasha laughed softly. “I like her.”

Selina studied Zeba for a moment longer, then sighed. “Come on,” she said, turning toward the alley. “At least get out of the cold. You can warm up. Then we’ll talk.”

Zeba gave this a thought and after realizing that she had no where to go, she followed them into the alley, every instinct alert. The space was narrow but clean, lit by a single overhead bulb that cast long shadows against the brick walls. A door stood at the far end, slightly ajar, light shining from within. The smell inside was different from the street, warmer, layered with perfume, sweat, and something metallic that Zeba could not immediately name.

Inside, the room was small but crowded, furnished with mismatched chairs and a sagging couch. Another woman sat near the window, smoking, her expression distant. She glanced up briefly as they entered, then returned to her thoughts. Selina closed the door behind them and leaned against it.

“Sit,” Maris said gently, gesturing to the couch.

Zeba sat, clutching her notebook closer to her chest without realizing she was doing it. Selina noticed, her gaze flicking to the worn cover. “You write?”

“Sometimes,” Zeba said.

“Smart,” Tasha replied. “Keeps you sane.”

Selina pushed herself off the door. “Here’s how this works,” she said, her voice calm but firm. “You don’t owe us anything. At least not tonight. But you don’t get things for free either. You stay, you listen. You lie, you leave.”

Zeba nodded slowly. She did not like the clarity of it, but she respected it.

Maris handed her a cup of something warm. Tea, maybe. Zeba drank carefully, the heat spreading through her chest, her hands trembling slightly now that she had stopped moving.

Selina watched her over the rim of her own cup. “You don’t belong on the street,” she said. “Not like that.”

Zeba looked up. “And you do?”

Selina smiled, but there was something brittle in it. “I belong where I can survive.”

The words settled heavily in the room. Zeba tried to convince herself that she did not understand those words, but deep within her, she did.

...