“Alive. Badly hurt and traumatized, but alive.”
He drops a pin on his location, just a few yards from where we are. We start clumping through the thick mud, passing a curtain of kudzu—the fast-growing, green vines common in this area—into a small clearing. It takes us a moment to understand what we’re seeing.
“Fuck,” Levy curses under his breath. “There’s a house under all that mess.”
It’s more like an old wooden shack camouflaged by years of lichen and vine overgrowth. A few other searchers enter the area, but the law enforcement on the ground holds them back while waving us through.
The one-room space has a bathroom and an out-of-date kitchen and is as dark and dank on the inside as one would imagine. It smells of earth and blood, and Erik moves quickly, grabbing a bolt cutter from his pack, going after the handcuffs binding Imani to a wire-frame bed with a thin mattress.
Given the state of her, there’s no question about what she’s been through.
The EMT team is led by an efficient, practical battle-ax of a woman, and she comes in on the walkie-talkie. “It’s a thirty-minute hike to your location, which is about all we have of the sun. Not a good spot to be in after dark, so if the patient is mobile or can be transported out without us, it would be in your best interest to do so.”
“I can walk,” the teenage girl says, using her freed hand to pull the gag out of her mouth. “Just get me the fuck out of here.”
Erik snips away the last of her restraints, and she immediately sits up. We step closer as she lists to the side before holding up a hand.
“Don’t fucking touch me.”
“You’re the boss,” Levy says, stepping back.
Taking a deep breath, she swings her legs over so her feet land on the floor. Everyone’s face is riveted with concern and constraint—wanting her to take it slow but unwilling to keep her in that horrible bed for a second longer.
After another wavering moment, she stands, her torn clothes practically hanging from her as she grips the metal bed frame.
Charlie and Erik wear matching grim expressions, and given what they’ve seen, that says a lot.
Charlie looks over at me and gestures with his chin. “I think this is you.”
I nod and take a beat to compose myself.
Even surrounded as she is by people, Imani looks entirely alone. Her missing person photograph showed a young Black woman with a mischievous grin, pretty high cheekbones, cute clothes, and a glossy mane of perfect coils cascading down her shoulders.
She runs her hands over her dry, matted hair and scowls. One of the detectives, also a Black woman, hands her a hair tie. Imani smooths her hair into a bulky ponytail, then looks to the detective for confirmation. She reaches out—with a silent look for consent—tucks in a few rogue strands, and then sends her a thumbs-up.
“I know someone who can restore your hair once you’re ready,” she says quietly, and Imani simply nods in return.
Another officer is trying to find her clean clothes, but we’re all as quiet as the dust motes filtering through the one beam of light in the dark space.
Keeping a respectful distance, I break the silence and introduce myself.
“Hi, Imani. I’m Dr. Abraham Barlowe, but you can call me Bram. My job is to help people who have been through terrible things.”
With the dull cast of her skin and her sunken cheekbones, it’s clear she hasn’t had a decent meal in the two weeks she’s been missing. In contrast, her expressive brown eyes look especially large. The sarcasm in the lift of her brow cannot be understated.
“People who have been through terrible things,” she mutters, annoyed by my skirting around the obvious.
She’s fifteen, and honestly? I’m grateful to see the attitude. It reminds me a little of Ignacio.
“You don’t have to talk about a damn thing—unless you want to—and I’m not about to ask you a bunch of questions. I’m just here to let you know there will be people here to show you that you can, and will, have a life beyond this.”
“But willhe?” she asks, anger rising. “Willhehave a life beyond this?”
“Not much of one if we have anything to say about it,” I say, lowering my voice as the conversations start to pick up around us.
Something about that amuses her, and she smirks, opening her mouth to retort. Only, instead of a retort, she freezes, fear blooming in her eyes.
Fuck. That’s…that’s not a good look.
