Chapter 1 #2
My cottage sits at the edge of town where the forest meets the water, a small place with a stone fireplace and windows that look out over the lake.
Warm. Comfortable. Thick rugs on the floors, a couch that's actually soft, bookshelves lined with medical texts and novels I rarely have time to read.
The kitchen gets used mostly for coffee, but it's well-equipped in case I ever decide to cook something more ambitious than eggs.
No photographs on the walls. No personal touches that invite questions about the past. Just a space that's mine, quiet and separate from the rest of my life.
I spend the evening reviewing trauma-informed examination protocols and reminding myself that patience is the only tool that works with patients who've been through this level of trauma.
Tomorrow I'll meet Traci Vance. Tomorrow I'll figure out how to help a seventeen-year-old girl who's survived something most people can't imagine.
The next afternoon arrives with the kind of gray sky that promises snow.
I'm restocking bandages when I hear the vehicle pull up outside.
Federal plates, which means Jennifer Brooks brought official transport instead of a personal car.
Smart move. Keeps the visit categorized as professional services.
I meet them at the door. Jennifer looks exactly like she sounded on the phone: mid-thirties, competent, running on too much coffee and not enough sleep.
Traci Vance is pale in the way that speaks of months without sunlight.
Underweight, clothes hanging loose on her frame—jeans sagging at the hips despite the belt cinched tight, oversized sweatshirt with sleeves that cover her hands completely.
Dark hair pulled back in a ponytail that emphasizes the sharp angles of her face and the hollows under her cheekbones.
She stands with her shoulders hunched inward, arms crossed tight across her chest, making herself as small as possible.
Every movement carries the wariness of someone who's learned that threats come without warning.
She doesn't look at me directly, but I see her cataloging exits, calculating distances, preparing to run if this turns dangerous.
The clothes are foster system emergency issue—donated items grabbed from whatever warehouse stocks they had available, no thought given to fit or comfort or the fact that a seventeen-year-old girl might want something that actually belongs to her.
"Traci, this is Dr. Sage." Jennifer keeps her voice gentle. "She's going to do a medical exam to make sure you're healing properly."
Traci stands perfectly still. Doesn't nod, doesn't acknowledge the introduction, just watches us both with those wary eyes.
I step back, giving her space. "Come inside. It's warm, and there's hot chocolate if you want it."
Still nothing. But she follows Jennifer through the door, moving with the careful precision of someone who's learned that sudden movements draw attention.
I settle them in exam room two. Jennifer takes the chair by the window, positioning herself where Traci can see her but far enough away not to feel trapped. Good instincts.
"Traci, I'm going to examine some of your injuries to make sure they're healing correctly." I keep my voice steady, professional. "I won't do anything without explaining it first. If you want me to stop at any point, just raise your hand. Okay?"
Traci's eyes flicker to mine. Brief contact, searching for something. Threat assessment, maybe. Or the desperate hope that this time an adult might actually keep their promises.
I pull on exam gloves and start with the basics.
Blood pressure elevated, heart and respiratory rates both running high—all consistent with chronic stress and trauma.
Pupils reactive, no signs of head trauma or neurological damage.
I move slowly, narrating each step, giving her time to process and object if she needs to.
When I examine her arms, I find what I expected and what makes me want to break things.
Healing bruises circle both wrists in distinct bands, approximately two inches wide, left by restraints worn for extended periods.
Track marks dot the inside of her left elbow where someone administered repeated IV access.
Given the trafficking context, likely sedation, though I can't know for certain without toxicology.
Defensive wounds cross her forearms in thin white lines, healed cuts where she tried to protect herself from something or someone.
I measure the restraint marks carefully. Depth of bruising suggests prolonged wear, probably weeks rather than days. Skin underneath shows early signs of nerve damage from restricted circulation.
"You're healing well," I tell her, meeting her eyes directly. "Your body is doing exactly what it's supposed to do. The bruising will fade in another few weeks. The muscle strain from the restraints will take longer, but we can work on exercises to help with that."
Traci watches me. Eyes taking in every movement, listening to every word, still deciding whether to believe any of it.
I continue the examination, checking for other injuries.
Malnutrition is obvious in the prominence of her clavicles and ribs, the way her jeans hang loose despite the belt cinched tight.
Hair shows signs of stress-related loss, coming out in patches near her temples. Fingernails bitten down to the quick.
When I examine her ankles, I find matching restraint marks. Same width, same pattern, same evidence of prolonged binding. Traci's jaw tightens and her breathing changes—just for a second—like she's remembering something specific. Then her face goes blank again, focus sliding away from me.
I finish the examination and step back. "You did really well.
I know this is hard. I know you don't have any reason to trust me or anyone else right now.
But I want you to know that you're safe here.
This clinic doesn't report to systems that compromise your privacy.
Nobody gets information about you without your consent.
And if you decide you want to talk about what happened, I'll listen. If you don't, that's okay too."
Her shoulders drop slightly. Not trust, exactly. But maybe the beginning of it.
Jennifer gathers her paperwork. "We've placed Traci in temporary foster care while we locate her uncle. Federal marshals are tracking him down, but it might take a week or more."
"Her uncle?" I pull up the intake form Jennifer handed me earlier, scanning for details. Emergency contact: Eli Vance. Relationship: paternal uncle. Last known location: unknown. Status: off-grid, former military.
"Former Delta Force, from what we can determine." Jennifer keeps her voice low, conscious of Traci listening. "He went off-grid a few years back. No current address, no phone number. But he's Traci's only living family. Her father died years ago, mother's whereabouts unknown."
Former Delta Force operator who disappeared into the Alaskan wilderness.
That profile fits several men I know here in the Talon Mountain area, people who came back from combat carrying damage they couldn't process in civilized spaces.
Men who walked into isolation because it felt safer than trying to function around people who expected them to be whole.
"Any idea how long it'll take to find him?"
"Federal marshals estimate a week or more. Alaska's a big state, and if he doesn't want to be found, he won't be easy to locate."
I look at Traci, silent and watching. Weeks in foster care, surrounded by strangers, waiting for an uncle she hasn't seen in years. Weeks feeling like a target while the people who trafficked her figure out if she's a liability worth eliminating.
"Bring her back in a few days," I tell Jennifer. "I want to monitor the healing process and make sure there's no infection developing. And if she needs anything before then, call me. Day or night."
"Thank you, Dr. Sage."
They leave through the waiting room. I watch through the window as Jennifer helps Traci into the vehicle, moving with the careful patience of someone who understands that every interaction matters. Traci climbs in, silent and watchful, like she's waiting for the next blow to fall.
I spend the rest of the afternoon updating her medical file and cleaning exam room two. Standard protocol: fresh sheets on the examination table, sterilize instruments, restock supplies.
When I wipe down the counter, I find smudges where Traci's hand had gripped the edge during the blood pressure check. The outline of her fingers is still visible in the latent impression, like she was holding on hard enough to anchor herself while I measured her vitals.
Something about that detail makes me pause.
Such a small thing, fingers pressed against laminate while she endured examination by another stranger who claimed to want to help.
I clean the smudges carefully, wondering how many times she's held on like that, wondering how many more times she'll need to before she feels safe again.
Outside my window, Alaska stretches in every direction: mountains sharp against gray sky, snow settling in drifts that'll stay frozen until spring, wilderness that doesn't care if you survive it or not. Beautiful and brutal.
Nature doesn't traffic children or bind them with restraints or teach them that adults can't be trusted. Humans do that. We take something as raw and honest as this landscape and poison it with cruelty.
I finish cleaning and lock the exam room door.
My phone rings just after five. Zeke MacAllister.
"Helena. Jennifer Brooks gave me a heads up she brought a trafficking survivor to your clinic today. Wanted me to know in case there were any security concerns."
Inter-agency coordination on trafficking cases—smart, given how many survivors end up targets.
"She did."
"How bad?"
"Bad enough that I'm flagging it for you. Traci Vance. Seventeen. Pulled after a raid on a trafficking operation, not speaking, waiting for family placement with an uncle nobody can find."
"Eli Vance?"
I straighten. "You know him?"
"Knew him. Delta Force, back when Rhys and I were running operations. Good man. Solid operative. Then a mission in Syria went sideways and he came home different. Went off-grid a few years back, told me he needed to be alone for a while. I respected it."
"Zeke, if the network that trafficked her finds out she came to my clinic—"
"I know," he says. "Federal victim services involvement means this connects to active investigations."
"Can you find him? Eli Vance?"
"If federal marshals are looking for him, we'll find him first. Give me a couple days."
"I need you to understand something." I lower my voice even though I'm alone in the clinic.
"This girl has been through hell. She's not speaking, she's terrified, and she's waiting in some foster home in Anchorage for an uncle she hasn't seen in years who's been living in the wilderness because he can't handle being around people.
If whoever trafficked her decides she's a liability—"
"I'll make some calls. Get eyes on your clinic, make sure nobody's tracking her movements. You armed?"
"Always."
"Good. Keep it that way."
He ends the call, leaving me with silence that feels like waiting.
I lock up the clinic, check the perimeter sensors twice, and drive home through falling snow.
Alaska winter closes in fast and unforgiving, burying the landscape under white that'll last until April.
Most people find it isolating. I find it clarifying.
Winter strips everything down to essentials: heat, food, survival. No room for pretense or distraction.
Tonight I sit by the wood stove and think about a seventeen-year-old girl who isn't speaking, lying awake in some stranger's house in Anchorage, probably wondering if she'll ever feel safe again.
Federal marshals are searching for Eli Vance somewhere in the Alaska wilderness.
And somewhere out there, the people who trafficked Traci are deciding whether she knows too much to let her live.