7. The First Patient #2
"I know it's hard to talk about. I know you've been through something terrible. But I need to know—who did this to you? Who hurt you?"
She looks at me. Her eyes are brown, like mine. Brown like river stones. Brown like the earth after rain.
And then she says, "The bad men."
Nathan is waiting outside the door.
He's leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, his face unreadable. He looks up when I step into the hallway.
"Well?" he asks.
"She'll live." My voice is flat. Professional. "Her arm is set. Her wounds are cleaned. She needs rest, food, water, and a real doctor to check on that arm in a few days."
"A real doctor isn't an option."
"Then I'll check on it myself." I pause. "But she needs more than medical care, Nathan. She needs safety. Stability. Someone she can trust."
"She has you."
"She doesn't know me."
"She will." He pushes off from the wall. "You're good with her. You're patient. You're gentle. She needs that."
"What she needs is to go home."
"She doesn't have a home."
I stare at him. The hallway is dark, the only light coming from the sconces on the walls. His face is shadowed, unreadable.
"What does that mean?" I ask.
"It means what it means." He reaches for me—not rough, not demanding. Just a hand on my arm, steady and warm. "You did good tonight, Monika. I won't forget this."
"What happens to her now?"
He doesn't answer.
"Nathan." My voice is sharp. "What happens to her?"
He looks at me. His eyes are dark. Empty. The same emptiness I saw in Tasha's eyes.
"She goes back," he says.
"Back where?"
"Back to where she came from."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're going to get."
He turns and walks away. His footsteps echo on the marble floor, growing fainter and fainter until they disappear entirely.
I stand in the hallway, alone, my hands still stained with Tasha's blood.
She goes back.
I don't know what that means. I don't know where she came from or where she's going. I don't know who the "bad men" are or what they did to her or why Nathan brought her to me instead of a hospital.
But I know one thing.
I'm not going to let her go back.
I go back into my room.
Tasha is sleeping. Her breathing is slow, steady, the kind of deep sleep that comes from pure exhaustion. She looks peaceful—or as peaceful as a child who's been tortured can look.
I sit on the edge of the bed. I watch her. I think about everything that's happened tonight—the child, the blood, the emptiness in her eyes.
I think about the girl in the warehouse. The one I fixed. The one who looked at me with empty eyes and asked for nothing because she'd already given up.
I think about the cages. The women. The children. The empire that Nathan is building on their backs.
I think about what I've become.
I've been complicit for a year. I've taken the money, the safety, the love. I've told myself I was surviving, that I was doing what I had to do, that I didn't have a choice.
But I did have a choice. I've always had a choice.
And I've been making the wrong one.
I lie in bed next to Tasha.
I don't touch her. I don't want to scare her. I just lie there, on the other side of the mattress, listening to her breathe.
The house is quiet. The fire has burned out. The moon is setting outside the window, and the first hints of dawn are starting to creep across the sky.
I think about my mother. About the barn. About the way she taught me to lean in when everyone else runs away.
I'm leaning in.
But I don't know if I can save anyone.
I don't know if I can save Tasha.
I don't know if I can save myself.
I fall asleep with tears on my cheeks.
When I wake, Tasha is gone.
The bed is empty. The sheets are cold. The door is open.
I run to the window. The gate is closed. The driveway is empty. The world outside is grey and cold and indifferent.
She's gone.
She's gone, and I don't know where.
She's gone, and I don't know if I'll ever see her again.
She's gone, and I didn't save her.
I find Nathan in his office.
He's sitting at his desk, a cup of coffee in his hand, the morning paper spread out in front of him. He looks up when I enter, and I see something in his eyes—something that might be surprise or might be guilt or might be nothing at all.
"Where is she?" I demand.
"Gone."
"Gone where?"
"Back where she belongs."
"She doesn't belong anywhere." My voice is shaking. "She's a child, Nathan. A child who's been tortured. A child who needs help."
"She's a product." His voice is flat. "A product that was damaged in transit. I had her fixed. Now she's back in circulation."
I stare at him. I can't believe what I'm hearing.
"You're a monster," I say.
"I know."
"You're a monster, and you're going to burn in hell."
"Probably." He sets down his coffee. He stands. He walks toward me, his steps slow and deliberate. "But I'm the monster who keeps you safe. I'm the monster who loves you. I'm the monster who would burn the world down for you."
"I don't want you to burn the world down. I want you to stop hurting people."
"Then you're asking for something I can't give."
He reaches for me. I pull away.
"Don't touch me," I say. "Don't ever touch me again."
"Monika—"
"I mean it." My voice is cold. Hard. The voice of a woman who has finally reached her breaking point. "I'm done. I'm done with all of it. I'm done with you."
I turn and walk out of the office. I don't look back.
I can hear him calling my name. I don't stop.
That night, I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling.
The house is quiet. The fire is lit. The shadows are dancing on the walls.
I think about Tasha. About her empty eyes. About the way she said her name like it was a secret she'd forgotten she was allowed to keep.
I think about Nathan. About the way he looked at me when I called him a monster. About the way he didn't deny it.
I think about what I'm going to do.
I don't know how to stop him. I don't know how to save the children in the cages. I don't know how to save myself.
But I know one thing.
I'm not going to be complicit anymore.
I'm going to do something.
I just don't know what yet.