Chapter 8
The two Americans walk toward the exit, and I pretend to be more interested in my charts than them. The sharp woodsy scent of their colognes still clings to the air, cutting through the ever-present antiseptic. While the sweet aroma flooding my nostrils should be pleasant, it is suffocating.
Two visits in one day…
Struggling to draw a solid breath, I rush down the hallway and into an empty exam room.
The moment the door shuts behind me, I fold against it.
My pulse hammers so hard, it drowns out the distant beeping of monitors and muffled voices as it whooshes through my ears.
While staring at the cracked tile between my feet, I try to level out my breathing as the walls start creeping in on me. I count my breaths.
Again.
Inhale, 1, 2, 3…
Slower this time.
Exhale 3, 2, 1…
“You’re fine,” I whisper to myself. “You’re still standing. You’re not bleeding.” That last one shouldn’t be a benchmark, but here we are. That fact I find it comforting says far more about my mental health than I care to think about right now.
I peel myself away from the door and clench my hands into fists, a futile effort to steady the tremble in them before stepping into the hallway.
The hospital swallows me immediately, noise and commotion surrounding me before I close the exam room door, the chaos carrying on with brutal indifference.
No one pauses. No one notices that my entire nervous system is still screaming. Except Zahra.
She appears at my side as though summoned by my panic. Without a word, she walks with me. Her arm brushes against mine, her stride matching mine without effort. The contact is grounding in a way I didn’t realize I needed.
Zahra and I clicked from the moment I arrived. As a seasoned nurse, she understands how to read people, how to know when something is wrong without being told. “You okay?” she asks quietly, once we’re far enough down the hall that no one can easily overhear.
I force a smile that fools no one who actually knows me, especially Zahra.
“Yeah. Just more men looking for Maryam.” I take two more steps before realizing that Zahra is no longer beside me.
When I glance over my shoulder, her face has gone pale, and her eyes are wide and bright with the fear she’s trying—and failing—to hide.
“Blake,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “Who?”
“Different ones,” I answer. “At least, I think they were.”
My disclosure doesn’t grant her any relief.
Her hands curl into fists at her sides, all her knuckles blanching from the tight ball she has curled them into.
I see the memory flicker across her face like lightning—the blood pooling faster than we could suction it away, the alarms, how we moved in perfect, wordless synchronization because there was no room for hesitation—followed immediately by regret.
Zahra helped me save Maryam, and now we’re in the same unsettling boat. That choice we made might cost us both everything. Her lips part slightly, and her breath shudders between them. “They asked about the surgery?”
I step closer and lower my voice so that no one else can hear.
“Hey. Look at me.” She does, and I’m met with her watery dark brown eyes.
“No one knows you were involved,” I share firmly.
“I didn’t put anyone on her chart but me.
Your name isn’t listed once. I didn’t mention you to anyone.
And I promise, I will tell no one. No matter what. ”
Zahra nods, but the fear doesn’t fully leave her eyes. “Be careful,” she exhales.
“I always am,” I reply automatically.
She cocks a brow and a half smirk, giving me a look that says, “We both know that’s bullshit.”
The rest of my shift passes in a blur of routine and muscle memory. I stitch. I prescribe. I reassure patients who look at me like I might be the last kindness they hear today. One crisis layered over another, the constant hum of barely managed catastrophe, with my nerves still buzzing.
By the time my shift ends, my head aches with exhaustion and suppressed adrenaline.
The sun has dipped low, casting the hospital in long, crooked shadows that make it appear even more fragile than it is.
I sign out, tuck my stethoscope into my bag, and board the employee shuttle with the rest of the clocked-out staff.
The bus rattles as it pulls away, windows open to the evening air.
It smells like dust, sweat, and fuel. I rest my forehead briefly against the glass as the city slides past in streaks of amber and shadow, thinking about Maryam and the mess I have gotten myself into.
It’s no longer just her husband—and his goons—trying to find her.
Someone else is interested in where she disappeared to.
My housing complex comes into view. It’s an older utilitarian building that looks like it was designed to meet the bare minimum of standards and not a fraction more.
It’s surrounded by—laughable—security. The guard who works the main gate most days spends more time napping than he does actually watching for threats.
I step off the shuttle and head inside, my sneakers squeaking loudly along the tile floor in the narrow corridor.
After pulling my keys from my bag, I slip them into the lock before noticing the folded piece of paper taped to my door.
I glance up and down the hallway, finding it empty, as I reach out and pluck the note from the door.
My heart slams against the back of my ribs, fast and furious again, as I unfold it.
You will tell us where she is, eventually.
My stomach drops, and I stare at the paper like it might lunge at me.
They know where I live.
The realization settles, cold and heavy, in my chest. It’s not just that they know where to find me—though that is terrifying—but that they walked past security, through this building, and managed to leave a note without anyone stopping them.
What’s to stop them from going inside next time? While I’m here…
I crumple the paper, fury and fear twisting until I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
After shoving the paper wad into my pocket, I unlock the door and step inside.
I bolt the door behind me and stand against it in silence, listening.
The only sound greeting me is the quiet hum of the air conditioning unit beneath the window.
My apartment is small, tiny really. It is barely more than a studio.
Actually, barring the kitchenette that fits exactly one person at a time, it reminds me a lot of the dormitory I lived in during residency.
A narrow twin bed is pressed against one wall, and across from it is a desk scarred with scratches and a matching chair that wobbles no matter how carefully you sit in it.
I cross the space in a few quick steps. After popping the lid on the trash can, I drop the crumpled note into it and shove it beneath an empty street food container and disposable coffee cups.
Out of sight… It might not be out of mind, but at least it won’t be staring at me when I open the trash again. With a sigh, I let the lid fall shut.
Peeling off my scrub top as I walk, I pause by the bed to flip on the small speaker.
On my phone, I click on my Jessie Murph playlist, and the familiar music fills the space.
I keep the volume low enough not to draw the attention of my neighbors, but just loud enough to give my thoughts something else to latch onto.
The shower sputters to life as I shimmy out of my pants.
I let them fall to the floor, adding my bra and panties to the small pile I will deal with later.
I pad barefoot into the shower, the cool tiles biting at the bottoms of my overheated feet.
Under the spray, I close my eyes as the warming water cascades over me.
It washes away the antiseptic scent that follows me home from work, but does nothing to rid me of the note nor the men who think I owe them my obedience.
After pouring a generous amount of lilac-scented soap onto my sponge, I scrub my skin hard, magically trying to scour the fear out of my me.
The soap trails over my skin and swirls down the drain, but the fallout of my decision doesn’t follow it.
Tilting my head back, the water hammers against my face.
You did the right thing. Even if this world I’m living in disagrees, I know I did the right thing.
I upheld my oath. I saved a woman and her child.
I did the right fucking thing…
I stand beneath the water until it runs lukewarm and my fingers are wrinkled.
When I finally shut off the shower, my muscles have loosened slightly, and exhaustion has started to seep in.
I dry off slowly and wrap myself in a thin off-white towel before leaning against the sink.
After wiping my hand through the condensation on the mirror, I stare at my reflection.
I look tired. Older than I feel. They haven’t broken me yet. And I don’t intend to let them.