It was vastly different from the fate of others who left with me. The other girls who came with me were sent to the restaurant to work as dishwashers while the boys were sent to the construction site to haul bricks.
The leaders said, "You are the prettiest girl among them." He then patted my shoulder and ran his hand through my ponytail.
Although I did not like the way he looked at me, he had done so much for me.
City people liked to drink and wear ties. The women usually wore high heels and they left trails of perfume in their wake.
Exaggerated earrings the they wore clashed with their laughter, creating a cacophony around them. They gave me a new name, Amy. And no one here called me Zara.
My mother was still making a ruckus at the police station. She refused to leave and kept calling out for the police to give her daughter justice.
The crow grew even bigger. However, it seemed only a few people knew who Zara Weston was.
"Granny, isn't your daughter called Amy? She has big waves in her hair and the scars on her body," someone asked. The man might be one of my clients.