The young woman slipped out of the doorway into a maelstrom of men and women moving up and down the cobblestoned street. Her body was entirely covered in a bright red cotton sari and stanapatta that were far too thin to protect her from the evening's chill. The stench of the river filled the air to the point that the ramshackle buildings and filthy, winding alleys of London's Shadwell district seemed saturated with it. Nevertheless, the night was alive. Drunken oafs stumbled out of taverns and haggard, filthy prostitutes hawked their wares. Music drifted from an open doorway, punctuated with laughter. Rough-hewn men with stony eyes and gruff humor-sailors and dockworkers all-prowled the alleys in packs, speaking the languages of a dozen nations. The woman kept her covered head down so that no one could see her face, or notice the fear in her eyes that would clearly identify her as prey. At first, she kept her speed equal to those who jostled around her, but like a frightened animal she picked up her pace as much as she could, until she was almost running as she weaved in and out of the uncaring crowd. Her heart hammered in ragged time against her ribs, like a tiny, frightened bird screaming for release. She wanted nothing more than to silence it, but that would mean death, and surely nineteen years on this Earth wasn't enough. She knew that the quick