Stacey sits upright in her seat, as she has done the entire flight. Most people like to sleep on a plane, to utilise its potential as a resting place before they head off on whatever adventures await them. Besides, planes are notoriously uncomfortable; the longer spent unconscious in them, the better. Certainly, the passengers on Qantas flight QF108 from New York to Sydney, Australia are no exception to this general rule. The plane is virtually silent. An occasional snore can be heard, as can the rustling of the pages of an in-flight magazine. A baby whimpers several rows back, and its mother sings to it in gentle, soothing tones. But Stacey is oblivious – to the sounds of the baby, the flickering reading lights, even the mild discomfort that is now making itself known in the small of her back.

Her mind is occupied by more pressing concerns.

Such as where will she stay when she arrives? She knows that an old friend of hers, Nick Mitchell, has been studying at university in Sydney. They had worked together in the mall for about a few months in her later years of high school; she had run into his mother buying groceries six months ago. She could find an internet café, look him up on Facebook, casually drop into the conversation between the 'how are yous' and the 'it's been so longs' a request for accommodation, just until she gets herself settled. But could she impose herself on his goodwill like that? She and Nick had been friends, and they'd even dated a little. But a lot of time had passed and they hadn't really spoken since she left her job, well over a year ago. Besides, did she really want Nick to know where she was, what she was doing? His mother still lived in Stoneybrook. She'd probably heard her story by now, at least the parts that were public knowledge. As much as she liked Nick, he really couldn't be trusted.

She supposes she'll have to find some sort of backpacker's hostel. That shouldn't make too much of a dent in her savings, which are extensive; she's had a few cash injections in the last few months from welcome and unwelcome sources alike. But she doesn't know how things will go in Sydney and she wants to make sure she is able to find work, that she even likes it enough in Australia to stay, before she goes splashing cash around indiscriminately. She'd gone to the library before she booked her flight, and spent a lot of time researching different cities. US cities were out, as was Europe. She wanted to be as far away from New York, from Stoneybrook, Connecticut as she could possibly be. She'd read about Sydney, seen it described as cosmopolitan and friendly, decided it was as good a place as any to start over. To make a new life. But she wants to be sure.

Stacey pulls out her own in-flight magazine from the pocket in front of her and opens it to an article on Singapore. She stares at the page but the information does nothing to penetrate her thoughts. She's started thinking about Stoneybrook again, a place she's promised herself she would try to forget. She'd moved there when she was thirteen, and had such happy memories of her early adolescence. Her middle school years were recalled with a fondness Stacey embraces warmly. Of course she'd had her own adolescent dramas; she'd fought with her friends, dated the wrong boys, argued with her parents. She'd rued the fact her father was a workaholic, that she had diabetes; she'd felt embarrassed and ashamed and angry. But she'd belonged to a club, a baby-sitting club, with a wonderful group of girls. She'd had good boyfriends, lovely boys who wanted to hold her hand and take her to movies and kiss her awkwardly goodnight on her doorstep. She'd had a good academic record and a love for mathematics, a healthy social life, two kind, loving parents…

No! She thinks. No more of that. This is your new life now. Forget Stoneybrook even exists.

The voice of the flight attendant interrupts her thoughts. 'Miss?' she asks. 'We're about to land. Please put on your seatbelt'. Her voice sounds frustrated; Stacey looks up and notices everyone else around her is prepared for landing. She must have really been out of it. She does as she's told and within half an hour the captain's voice is heard: 'Welcome to Sydney. The local time is 7.43am. Thank you for flying Qantas.'

This is it, Stacey thinks. My new life.

Almost 15 hours later, Stacey is lost. Completely, hopelessly lost. She'd taken a taxi from the airport into the city centre and began exploring. She walked by the water, window shopped, people watched and before she knew it, it was getting dark. She began searching for a backpacker's hostel to stay in. 'What do you mean, you're booked out?' she'd yelled at the receptionist at the last place she'd tried. 'You don't have any space? Nothing?'

'Sorry,' the receptionist had replied, and to her credit she looked like she really meant it. This didn't make Stacey feel any better.

All of the hotels she'd tried had been proper hotels, with men waiting outside to park your car and chandeliers in the halls. Finance-conscious as ever, she'd hopped on a train, thought she'd try to find a place in a nearby suburb where prices should be cheaper. She'd not accounted for jetlag, nor the fact that she would fall asleep almost the second she sat down, nor the fact that she would wake up in an outer suburb she'd never heard of, nor for the fact that trains to the city would not resume until the next morning. The place she has ended up in is depressing. It's some sort of industrial town, she is surrounded by factories and barbed wire and road, miles and miles of road. By now functioning on auto-pilot, Stacey begins to walk. She knows she should stay by the train station, sleep there and catch the first train back to Sydney. But she also knows she won't be able to sleep, and thinks that the monotony of walking might take her mind off her thoughts. Perhaps she will find a place to stay; her optimism is faltering, but remains in tact.

She walks for 20 minutes before reaching a built up area, surprised it took her so little time. There is a supermarket, and a bottle shop, and a pub. There is no hotel. There is nothing for her here just as there will be nothing for her in the next town, and the next, and the next. It is cold, very cold, and she doesn't have a jacket.

She crumples on the ground by the side of the road and begins to cry. She's not sure at what point she stops crying about her current situation, and at what point every emotion she has been suppressing for the day, for the last week, the last few months comes flowing out. She'd counted on this trip being the change she needed, but it's turned out just like everything else. She's alone, she's scared and she can't forget whatever it is she's escaping from. The despair she feels is all consuming, soul destroying.

'Hey, pretty lady,' a voice in the darkness says. She looks up and sees a tall body and a small, mean mouth. He is drunk, she can smell the alcohol on his breath. He is swaying as he stands, unable to retain full balance. 'What are you doing out here all by yourself?'

'I'm lost.' She doesn't know why she tells him this. Perhaps because he is the first person who has spoken to her since she arrived here. 'I don't have anywhere to stay'. Perhaps because she knows how she can make this situation work for her.

'Well,' he slurs, his eyes glistening in the dark. 'Maybe I can do something about that. How 'bout you come back to my place. I'm sure we can find somewhere for you to sleep.' The insinuation in his voice makes her feel sick, but she accepts his hand when he offers it to her. Old habits die hard. She knows what he wants, but she doesn't care.