Sometime in May

1. Far From Home

Can I do this? Can I really leave? It was the first day of May 1999 and rain tapped against the airport as announcements crackled over the PA system. Noor approached the reception desk, tucking a loose curl that had escaped the edge of her silk scarf. The terminal lights highlighted her olive skin as she steadied her nerves before meeting the airline attendant.

"Sabah al-khayr—Morning. "Her voice caught. She tried again. "I need—is there a flight to Casablanca? The next one. Please."

The woman gave Noor a brief look, then tapped her boxy monitor.

"Ana aasifa—I'm sorry, but all flights to Morocco are grounded today because of the storm."

"Grounded?" Noor's frown deepened. "I can't wait until tomorrow. I need to leave today."

Noor couldn't afford a setback—not after what she'd done.

"Most westbound flights have been delayed for safety," the attendant said. "But if you're in a hurry, I can reschedule your flight to the earliest available tomorrow."

While the attendant searched, the terminal seemed to close in around her. Noor could not shake the certainty that the police were already looking for her. Her sea-green eyes scanned the departures board; most flights were greyed out or marked 'rescheduled' in bold red. Then, tucked among them, one green light blinked: Lagos. It was the only door still ajar.

"What about Lagos? Maybe I can reroute from there later."

The attendant paused her typing, rechecked the list, then nodded.

"That's flight EA409. It's the last one."

"When does it leave?"

"Five minutes."

Noor nodded. "I'll take it."

"Your documents, please."

Noor withdrew the passport from her safari jacket, revealing the forged visa. The UV light flickered on, pale against the document, investigating for cracks. At seventeen, she never imagined she would be in a situation like this. The scent of cigarette smoke and lemon from the man in the dark alley seemed to cling to her skin—a reminder of the desperate exchange that had brought her here. The attendant's fingers traced the edges of the page and Noor held her breath, hoping nothing gave her away.

Nearby, security checked her backpack as the attendant stamped the papers with a thud and pushed them forward. Noor exhaled.

"I remember travelling often as a student," the attendant said, smiling knowingly. "Our ground staff often recommend safe accommodation for students who reroute unexpectedly. Would you like that?"

"Yes, please. I'd love that."

The attendant pressed a few keys and printed a slip of paper, glancing briefly at the list before handing it across the desk.

"Have a pleasant flight, Noor Assad."

"Shukran—Thank you."

Noor settled into her window seat, retrieved her old Walkman from her backpack and pressed play. The gentle, melancholic voice of Fairuz began to sing and the music drew her inward, settling her into a small quantum of solace that felt both fragile and sufficient. As the wheels lifted off, sunlight fell across her face. For a moment, the weight of Cairo stilled beneath her, as if the earth itself had swallowed her sins and she allowed sleep to carry her into the unknown.

Outside the airport entrance, the humid Lagos air lunged at her, thick and suffocating. Voices swirled and collided around her—laughter, haggling, and the sharp staccato of Yoruba—all mingling with the scent of polluted air and exhaust fumes. Noor smoothed the slip the attendant had given her. The ink on the page blurred: Red Cargo Valley, circled in blue, a note beside it—close to the island, short stays accepted—as if the words were whispering a dare.