“Your job,” the man with the knife snarls, pressing firmly beneath my chin, “was to obey.” It’s not enough force to break the skin, but the faint sting is just enough to momentarily steal my breath.
A sharp, loud knock raps against the door. “Dr. Hart?”
“Send her away,” one of the men gruffly whispers.
“Occupied,” I choke out the word, my voice cracking despite my best effort to sound strong. The knife is pushed even tighter as a silent warning. “I’ll be out in a few minutes.”
There is a pause on the other side of the door. “Okay,” the nurse finally replies, her footsteps retreating down the hall, oblivious to the situation I am in.
After withdrawing the blade from beneath my chin, the man steps back. He waves it at me as he retreats toward the door before flipping the blade shut and putting it into his pocket.
“We will be back tomorrow,” the man from the table says pleasantly as he stands. He slips his finger under my jaw,and I tense as though it were another knife, as he tips my face toward his. “I suggest you know more than you do today.”
They file out, one by one, in silence, pulling the door closed behind them. It clicks shut, and the tiny room suddenly feels cavernous despite its size. My legs give out, and I fall to the cool tile floor. Sitting with my back against the wall, I don’t move for what feels like minutes. My hands shake, and I struggle to catch my breath, my lungs burning with each inhale like I have been running.
You did the right thing. The reminder feels more fleeting each time I repeat it.
Maryam plays on repeat in my thoughts whether I want her to or not. Had I listened to her husband, she would have surely died. It took only a split second for me to decide that his authority, the law, or even the threat I would be putting my own life in wasn’t enough to keep me from needing to save the woman bleeding out in front of me.
I acted. I upheld my oath and saved her. And now, that bill is due.Tomorrow. Tomorrow, I might not be as lucky as I was today.
After pushing from the floor, I take a moment to straighten my coat before lifting my chin and stepping into the hallway. For the first time since I became a doctor, I wonder if I did the right thing by saving their lives.
Our Jeep rattles like it’s being held together by spite and rust as Damon muscles it through the narrow alleys of Jadiriah. The more affluent parts of the city fall away fast as we head toward our destination. Glass towers become concrete blocks, patched and repatched, different eras and disasters layered on top of each other. Laundry flaps between balconies like flags surrendering.
I rest my forearm against the open window frame. It does little to cool me, but I let the hot wind dry the sweat coating my skin. The blowing air reeks of exhaust and burning rubber, a smell that only grows stronger as we inch closer to the civil unrest festering in this war-torn side of Jadiriah.
As we drive, my mind doesn’t settle. They keep circling the same question, gnawing at the edges of my focus.How does a woman vanish from a hospital without so much as a ripple?
Damon interrupts my thoughts without taking his eyes off the road. “You’re awfully quiet.”
“Just thinking,” I reply.
“That’s dangerous.” He snorts his joke. “Wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.”
“Fuck off,” I deadpan.
The corner of his lips lift as he nods toward the GPS unit suction-cupped crookedly to the windshield. “It’s up ahead.” He makes a left down another narrow alleyway before the Jeep slows to a stop.
I look up, blinking like I’m trying to focus my vision, and stare at the building in front of us. “This,” my voice kicks up an octave with disbelief, “is a hospital?”
Damon pulls his phone from his pocket, double checks the address then gestures broadly with his free hand. “This is the address Abrahim gave us.”
I take in the building, or what remains of it, as I climb out of the Jeep. The exterior concrete is stained and pitted, like the structure absorbed an explosion.Or five. Some of the windows are cracked or boarded over, and a faded sign hangs above the entrance, its bolts barely holding it to the wall. “This place looks like it got bombed last week,” I mutter, closing the passenger door. “Or like it’s on the verge of being condemned.”
Damon shrugs. “Both could be true.”
As we step inside, I quickly realize the interior isn’t much better. The air is thick and stale, heavy with disinfectant that appears to be losing its battle. The lights flicker overhead, bathing everything in a jaundiced shade of yellow. The floor tiles are mismatched and cracked. Along the plaster-speckled walls, patients sit slumped in plastic chairs, their eyes dulled with the monotony of waiting.
This place doesn’t scream abduction site. It whispers neglect.
We flash meaningful credentials that get us wary looks. Damon does most of the talking, because he’s better at sounding approachable. Although, I’m pretty sure it’s not just my deep voice that people find intimidating. I hang back, looming by default. Faces tighten when they notice me as he chats his way toward reluctant compliance. Upon hearing Maryam’s name, an older nurse with tired eyes and ink-stained fingers glances at the hallway and shares, “You should talk to Dr. Hart.”
“Thank you.” Damon nods. “Where can we find him?”
“Her,” she corrects gently, her hand lifting to point across the waiting area.
I follow her finger to the woman standing near the nurses’ station, and my train of thought derails completely.Dr. Hart is a very cuteher, my brain supplies, entirely unhelpfully. She is bent over a chart, brows furrowed with intent concentration.
