Ella

I did my best to organize the small number of possessions I brought with me from New Hampshire. Three sleeveless dresses, three cashmere cardigan sweaters, two pairs of slacks, five t-shirts, a jacket, boyfriend jeans, undies and bras, socks, yoga pants and sleeveless t-shirt, and scarves galore. Add a pair of pumps, a sexy pair of strappy pumps, running shoes, and boots, and that was the extent of my wardrobe. I'd have to be creative with my scarves and sweater/dress combinations so that I didn't seem to be wearing the same thing every day.

I spent that night alone in my tiny apartment, eating some curry from a take-out restaurant down the street – my one indulgence. The next morning, I'd start my new position, and I wanted everything to be perfect.

Before bed, I laid out my black sleeveless dress, a pink cashmere cardigan, my sober black pumps, and hose, hanging everything on a hanger on the back of the door. If I timed everything right, I could hop out of bed at seven fifteen, eat my breakfast, have a shower, dress, and leave the apartment by eight fifteen, arriving at the publishing house at eight fifty, with ten minutes to pick up a coffee and make it inside to my destiny.

At least, that was the plan.

Things turned out to be very not according to plan.

I stood in the middle of Grand Central Station where I had to change trains and realized I'd been robbed.

I had arrived only moments earlier, and decided to check out the subway map to make sure I was taking the right train to get to work when I got an email. I heard the ping and opened my backpack, then removed my cell.

Sure enough, there was an email from Sharon.

Ella!

I'm sorry but I have to cancel our meeting this morning. Can you come at 1:30 instead? My filling fell out when I was eating a pumpernickel bagel and one of the pieces of caraway must have knocked it out, so I'll be at the dentist. Please, take the morning off. I do need you this afternoon though. Bring a notebook and pen and be ready to take notes. I would usually have supplies for you, but we're in a temp office until renovations on our new one is finished, and the stock room is all packed up. I'll reimburse you for anything you spend until they finish the new office space. Thank God, you're here. I've been without someone to help since my last intern left two weeks ago so believe me, I'm so happy that I have you. Meet me at my office at 1:30. I have a 2:00 and want you to take notes, but I'll have time to show you around the office and get you set up in your temporary space before the meeting.

Can't wait to have you as my assistant and help organize my day.

Sharon

I sent her a response right away.

Sharon!

So sorry your filling fell out. I'll be there at 1:30 sharp.

I'm really glad to be working with you.

Ella

So there I was, having arrived downtown for my first day of work, and I had the morning to kill. I stood in Grand Central and glanced around, admiring the beautiful art deco building. Just then, a nice little old lady wearing a polka-dot kerchief over her grey hair stood beside me.

"Excuse," she said in a thick Eastern European accent. "Could you please to help me find?"

"Sure," I said and leaned closer, checking out the address scrawled on a piece of paper. Then I examined the large transit map she opened, trying to help her find a specific stop on the subway that would take her to an address in Brighton Beach.

That was my first mistake.

I mean, who was I to think I should be helping someone else find their way around the city when I had only just arrived? But I was sure I could read a map... Besides, she was such a sweet old lady.

Suddenly the old lady folded the map up. "Thank you," she said. "Now I go."

Then she sped off, suddenly and amazingly agile. The thing was, she left the station instead of going down to the platform and taking the train I'd suggested.

"Hey!" I called out. "You're going the wrong way!" I gestured to the escalator leading down to the platform she was supposed to be taking, but she disappeared out the door and into the morass of pedestrians. I shrugged to myself, figuring she must have her reasons, and leaned over to grab my backpack.

In a completely comedic fashion, I reached into thin air where my backpack had once been, only to find it was gone. Unbeknownst to me, while I was so kindly and naively studying the map to figure out how the little old lady could get to her destination, her accomplice was busy snagging my backpack. The super-fantastic backpack specially designed to contain all my most valuable possessions.

My laptop. My cell. My wallet. My passport. My freaking money order for the apartment in Chelsea – the real apartment, with the real exposed brick and private bathroom.

I turned and saw a person rushing out another door, my backpack in hand.

"Hey, you! Stop!"

I chased after the middle-aged woman, my black heels clattering on the stairs, but before I could get to the street, she disappeared into a wall of people.

Feeling helpless, I went back into the station and stood there speechless, at a loss for what to do next. I had to take a train to Fifth Avenue, for my first day as an intern. I should never have put my backpack down and let my attention be distracted elsewhere, but I was trying to be nice. The poor little old Slavic lady had looked confused and helpless. My instincts were to help her.

I was freaking out internally that I'd just lost all my ID, not to mention the cashier's check for my first and last month's rent, which represented months of savings. I was supposed to give the landlord the check when I went to pick up the keys to my new apartment on Monday after work.

I'd have to go to my bank and get another check, but of course, since I didn't have my ID, how would they know it was me?

Oh. My. God...

Now, what the hell was I going to do? I'd be homeless unless I could somehow get a new cashier's check. Without it, I'd have no apartment.

As it was I had no cellphone. No laptop. Worst of all, no wallet. Even my damn keys to the Airbnb were gone. I'd have to call the landlord to get her to let me in.

But... my cell was in my damn backpack!

I went to a payphone and called Steph, my best friend in all the world, who was going to join me in Manhattan as soon as her exams were finished at Christmas.

I called collect.

As soon as she answered, the words just spilled out of me.

"Steph, oh my God, I can't believe what happened – I just arrived in Grand Central Station on my way to my new job and was just helping this little old lady with a babushka and someone who was her accomplice took my backpack and--"

Finally, she stopped me.

"Ella!" she said in a firm voice. "Slow down. Slow down. Don't panic."

Don't panic? How could she tell me not to panic? She knew me better than anyone. Panic was my middle name.

"What do you mean, don't panic?" I said, glancing around the station. "Everything's gone! I've been robbed. I have nothing. No money, no ID, no laptop."

"Nothing?"

"I have my suitcase with clothes in the Airbnb I rented but everything else is gone and I can't even get into my apartment because the key is in my backpack. That's why I'm calling collect."

"Oh, God," she said, and even she was starting to sound panicked. "You have to call your bank immediately and cancel your credit cards and debit cards. You have to go to the police and report the theft. If you want, I'll buy you a ticket so you can come home. I'll pay for it and you can pick it up."

"I don't want to come back," I replied, glancing around the station. Even if it was big and scary, I had a job here and I was damned well not going to go running back home, tail between my legs. "I've been wanting an opportunity like this for years."

"Sometimes you have to admit defeat. Besides, the internship is unpaid. I'll buy you a ticket. All you have to do is pick it up."

"With what?" I asked, running my hand through my hair. "I can't even prove who I am."

I heard a huge sigh on the other end of the line. "I don't know what else to do. Go to the American Consulate?"

"Seriously?" I chewed my nail. "Maybe I can go to the Social Security Office and tell them my card number?"

"I don't know. My brother lost his wallet once and it was hell trying to get everything replaced, but he had his Social Security card at home. You're not supposed to carry it in your wallet, you know. Just in case someone steals it or you lose it. Identity theft? John used his Social Security number as proof of ID. Plus he had all his banking info. Letters to him from the bank. The only other option you have is to call your dad. He probably has friends in Manhattan. They could provide for you, get you some money until you can replace everything – but it'll be expensive. New cell, new laptop. All that ID."

A surge of adrenaline went through my veins. "He'll more likely to send a private plane and make me come back to New Hampshire."

"He might, but only because he loves you."

I rubbed my forehead, feeling the first tinges of a headache coming on. "I can't call him and ask for help. It'll just confirm in his mind that I can't take care of myself."

"Which, obviously, you can't..."

"Steph! I'm the victim here. You're supposed to be my bestie. You're supposed to be sympathetic."

"I'm supposed to tell you the unvarnished truth. You're clearly too inexperienced in the ways of the world to be in Manhattan all on your own. You were robbed your first week."

"My third day."

"Even worse," she said. "Call your dad."

No freaking way. Yes, I got taken in, robbed in the middle of the morning in a public space. That wasn't lost on me. But I wasn't going to give in so easily.

The very last thing I'd do was call him – Mr. Future President, as I liked to call him teasingly. He'd shake his finger at me and tell me that he was right, I shouldn't have moved to Manhattan. I should have stayed in Concord and lived with him and my mother until I found another husband.

"Look, I have to go to my job, talk to my boss. Maybe she'll accept an email transfer and give me some cash so I can at least get a new cell. I could probably get by with a tablet instead of a laptop. That would be cheaper. I could use my computer at work to access my bank account and send her my money."

"Ella..."

"Well, it's worth a try, right?"

"Okay, but she'll think you're a total loser if you tell her you were robbed on your first day on the job and need to hit her up for money."

"What's worse is that my cashier's check for first and last on the Chelsea apartment was in my bag. I don't even have that or my keys to the Airbnb."

"Oh, God, Ella. You are so screwed. Where are you going to stay?"

"I don't know. I'll have to contact the landlord to get into my place in Chelsea. If I can get money to my boss, maybe she can get a cashier's check for me? The least I can do is go to the meeting and explain what happened and ask for her help. If she won't help, then I'll call my dad."

"Call me as soon as you know what's happening. When you get back, we can get drunk."

"I'm not coming back," I said, a little too firmly. I took in a deep cleansing breath, trying to calm myself. "If I have to come back, I'm just going to do it all again, and you know it, so I might as well soldier on."

"I do know it. Why you can't be happy here I'll never know. What's Concord? Chopped liver?"

"It's not Manhattan. Manhattan is where the literary world lives."

"I know, I know. Call me collect as soon as you know what's going on. Love you."

Steph ended the call so I hung up the payphone receiver and stood there for a moment, debating whether to call my father now or later. I had about $4.95 in my pocket and wanted to save that in case I needed to eat or make another call.

First on my agenda – find a library so I could use a computer to let Sharon, my boss, know I was going to be late. Then, I had to go to the closest police precinct and report the theft.

I found a nearby public library and sat at a terminal, thankful that there was some public access to the internet in the city. I had less than five dollars in my pocket and didn't want to have to buy a coffee just to use the internet café down the street.

I opened my Gmail and sent Sharon a note, wanting to ensure that I hadn't been scammed about the internship on top of everything else. I didn't believe Sharon was a fake boss, but after the start to my morning, I was beginning to think I was the most naïve person alive.

I walked the ten blocks to the 17^th Precinct and stopped at the front desk.

"I need to report a crime."

The duty officer, tall and older with thick dark hair shot through with grey, looked up from his roster and stared at me through his reading glasses.

"What crime?"

"I was robbed. In Grand Central Station."

He looked me over and I could tell from the expression on his face that he could barely keep from laughing out loud.

"You're in luck. We're unusually quiet right now. Fill out a form and you'll meet with an officer to give a statement." He turned to the large room where several police officers sat at their desks.

"Hey, Barnesy," he called out to a police officer sitting a few desks over. "I've got a live one for you."

Barnesy – aka Sgt. Barnes – was equally unsympathetic to my plight. Middle-aged, balding, with a tiny red swizzle stick clamped tightly between his teeth, Barnes sat at his desk and hesitated when I related to him what happened. I could see him trying to hold back a grin.

He took the swizzle stick out of his mouth and jabbed the air with it. "So, you say you sat down at a bench, and an older woman approached you and asked for help with a transit map."

"Yes. Exactly. She seemed nice and sweet. Like a grandmother, a recent immigrant. All dressed in black like an old widow. She sat beside me and opened this big map of the subway system. I leaned over and tried to figure it out."

"And on your second day in Manhattan, you felt capable of explaining the transit system to someone else?" he asked, an expectant expression on his not-sympathetic face.

I shrugged one shoulder, feeling like a total idiot.

"I wanted to help an old lady. You know, be kind to your elders? Besides, I spent hours studying the transit map before I came here, so I know it pretty well. We tried to figure it out together. Or so I thought..."

He finally cracked a smile, but it wasn't a mean smile. I thought I saw some sympathy in his eyes. He turned back to his computer keyboard. "What did she look like?"

I gave him details about the woman and watched while he typed with two fingers on his keyboard. Elderly with grey hair pulled back into a ponytail, and a black scarf over top. Blue eyes. Slavic accent. Thick black overcoat. I didn't really look at her too much, wanting to be polite.

"And when did you realize your backpack was gone?"

"After the woman left. She seemed in a hurry to leave but she didn't take the train I said she should take. I reached down to get my backpack to catch my own train and it was gone."

He glanced at his computer screen over his reading glasses. "It's a common scam in public transit spaces. Distract the target, then snag the purse or bag. Happens pretty much every day." He typed on his keyboard for a moment.

"I saw a woman leaving with my backpack in hand. I chased her but I was wearing these," I said. and showed him my heels. "I couldn't run fast enough to catch up."

I described the younger woman – dressed in ordinary clothes, jeans, a long black sweater, her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail.

"What's the chance that I'll ever see my backpack and ID again?"

He turned to me and looked me squarely in the eye. "I don't like to be the bearer of bad news, but you will probably never see any of your possessions again. It's highly unlikely that we will recover your property. In the future, keep your backpack on or keep it between your knees. The place is teeming with pickpockets and thieves."

I nodded. I'd already figured this crime was so common that the cops would rarely even try to do anything about it besides take a report.

"You could check local pawn shops for anything of value in your backpack, but they'll likely remove the SIM card from your cell, and wipe your laptop so you'll never see them again. The wallet?" He crossed his arms and chewed on his swizzle stick. "You have to call the bank and report any credit and debit cards. Call Social Security to report a stolen SSN. It'll take a while to get replacements. You'll need to go to the passport office and get a new passport, but that'll take a couple of weeks."

"I don't have any ID."

He shrugged. "Call your family."

"I can't."

He raised his eyebrows. "Family problems?"

I nodded and glanced away. "I'm just trying to stay independent. This is my first time away from home. I don't want to go running back to my father if I don't have to."

"No aunt, uncle, cousin, or best friend who can help?"

"Yes, but how do they get money to me here when I have no ID? I can't even go to Western Union."

He squinted like he didn't believe me. "You know absolutely no one in Manhattan?"

Of course, I did know some people. Or at least, some people knew me. They knew my father, who had associates here, and I had no doubt that they would be very willing to curry favor with him by helping his errant daughter. They were the last people I wanted to rely on. I was trying to escape my father's world. But it was looking increasingly like I had no other choice.

"I know my new boss. That's it." I sat there, disheartened.

"Do you have a place to stay?"

"I'm in an Airbnb until Monday, when I get an apartment in Chelsea, but the cashier's check was in my backpack."

"Cashier's check?"

"It was a private deal. A sublet."

He sat back, his eyes on me, his expression grimly amused. "Chelsea? Pretty swank area for a newcomer. How much you paying?"

"You don't want to know," I repeated, and took a deep breath. "I used up almost all my savings so I could afford a place in Manhattan."

"You and a hundred thousand other hopefuls. You say you have a job?"

I told him about my internship. "I start this afternoon. It's unpaid. I'm hoping to get a paid position once the internship is over."

"You moved to Manhattan for an unpaid internship?" Sgt. Barnes shook his head as he finished up typing and clicked to print the report. "That's either incredibly brave or incredibly foolish."

"Maybe both," I said with a rueful laugh.

The printer beside Sgt. Barnes hummed into action and spat out a sheet of paper. He took it and handed me a pen, pointing to where I should sign for the police report.

"You've had a very bad day. Look," he said and leaned forward, sympathy finally touching his eyes. "I don't know what's up with your family that you don't want to contact them, but this is kind of an emergency. You're broke. You have no ID. You need to call someone and get help. It's that or you start dumpster-diving and sleeping under the Brooklyn Bridge with the vagrants, but you wouldn't like the food. I can tell by looking at you that you're not cut out for the free-food lifestyle or the open-air sleeping concept."

I covered my eyes, finally overcome with emotion. "I know," I said, biting back tears. "My only hope is to ask my new boss to accept a money transfer on my behalf." I glanced at him to see his response.

"Are you sure you the job isn't a scam, too?"

"No," I said, shaking my head. "That much I do know. I have a position waiting for me. I'm supposed to go this afternoon and meet my boss."

"You could ask for your boss's help, but it's not the kind of thing that will encourage confidence in you as a potential employee..." He raised his eyebrows meaningfully.

"I have to try," I said.

"Got a Plan B?" he asked expectantly.

"There is no Plan B. This is Plan A, B and C. Anyway, there's really nothing you can do, but thanks for listening."

"No problem. We do have social workers who could help you find a shelter or somewhere to stay if you need it." He handed me a card, and I tucked it into my pocket. "If you think of anything else, give me a call."

I forced a smile and then left the station house, checking the clock on the wall, not wanting to miss my meeting with Sharon. I hoped that I wouldn't have to call a social worker for help, but I was beginning to think that might be my last resort. No matter what, I wasn't going back to Manchester, but I might need to find a soup kitchen so I wouldn't have to dive into a stinking dumpster under the Brooklyn Bridge...

Until then, I had to find a cheap notebook and pen. I wandered around the streets, then went into a small bookstore to pick up a notebook and pen. The only options open to me were various superhero and toy-themed children's notebooks and pencils with toys on top that were on sale.

I chose Ironman for my notebook and a pencil with a purple-haired troll on top. I'd tell my boss it was the only notebook I could get on the fly. It would be a good story – one that we could laugh about one day.

Today was going to be one of those momentous days that you could look back on and laugh about, right?

I arrived outside the Macintyre Building on Fifth Avenue, my stomach totally in knots. The building was an old Art Deco with brass fixtures and actual sculptures, some of them looking like gargoyles. There was a security desk at the front, which I went to.

A nice older man dressed in a blue uniform greeted me.

"Hello. Ella Carlson to see Sharon Rogers."

The man nodded and picked up a phone. He spoke softly into the phone and then nodded. He hung up and smiled at me. "Can I see some ID?"

I smiled guiltily. "My wallet was stolen in Grand Central Station."

He glanced at me, his eyes moving up and down over my clothing and at the notebook and troll pencil I held in my hand. "I'll need to see some ID."

"Could you maybe ask Ms. Rogers to come down? Honestly, I don't have any ID but we've Skyped before so she knows me."

He picked up the phone once more and spoke quietly into it. He glanced at me, responded to whoever was on the other end, then hung up once more.

"She said you have auburn hair and big green eyes and that I should let you up even without ID."

"Thank you," I said and mock-wiped my brow. "I haven't had a chance to go to the bank or Social Security office to get replacement cards. I spent the last few hours in the police station giving a report."

He smiled back at me. "Rough morning?"

"You don't know the half of it."

He gave me a temporary ID and pointed to the elevators. "Twenty-seventh floor. Once you get the documentation, we'll get you a permanent card but that'll work for today."

"Thanks."

I took the card and headed to the elevator. The doors were just closing so I called out for them to hold.

When the door re-opened, I stepped on and saw a brown-haired businessman wearing a gray suit, with his back to the door. Beside him stood a bicycle courier in full riding uniform. He was leaning against the elevator wall, his helmet in his hand, his hair wet and his bangs falling in his eyes in a very sexy way. Bandages on his elbows and knees...

It was the bike courier from the previous day. The one who almost ran me down. The one I made crash into a taxi.

Crap...