After we finish eating, we browse some more, the afternoon stretching languidly. We pass astall, and Zahra pauses, herexpression softening as she fingers a stack of baby blankets, and I can’t help but think about Maryam and her daughter.
She really shouldn’t be going home to her husband, but there are laws and culture here that disagree. Men get to decide whose body matters here. I’m just a doctor. I can stop bleeding. I can deliver babies. But I cannot dismantle the patriarchy by tomorrow morning.
And I feel like such a failure for it.
Hospitals have a rhythm. It doesn’t matter what country you are in or what language the signs on the walls are written in. Even controlled by laws that knot your stomach and make you question your oath, that rhythm never changes. Measured and insistent beeps flit through the air as the rubber soles of hurried footsteps whisper against the tile floors. All of it is slightly muffled by the quiet conversation of physicians whose voices are frayed at the edges with exhaustion. It’s the sound of bodies failing and being held together by stubborn hands and borrowed time.
I cling to that rhythm like a lifeline. When everything else feels unfamiliar—or you break a rule that suddenly makes your oath feel like a liability—it’s the only thing that stays true.
As I pass the waiting room, three men who clearly do not belong here catch my eye. They are wearing chinos pressed to perfection with button-down shirts so crisp I’d be surprised if they don’t all faintly smell of starch. Even their loafers are so pristine that they faintly reflect the fluorescentlights overhead. They look like they’re headed to a business lunch, not like the rest of those waiting, patients who sloughed across the city, desperate for treatment. Based on their appearance, they are clearly affluent enough to afford a physician who does house calls.
The one in the center cradles his wrist like it pains him, though his face does not mirror his discomfort. The other two hover beside him, with squared shoulders and eyes flitting around the room with every movement.
My pulse ticks up a notch, sharp and immediate, when the injured man rises from his seat, and the three of them briskly walk toward me. “Can I help you?” I ask, keeping my voice neutral and professional.
The man rubs at his injured wrist and smiles at me. It’s small and polite. “I think I may have strained something. It is… uncomfortable.” While his accent is thick, his English is flawless. Relief and dread hit me at the same time. Relief because treatment is so much easier without an interpreter, and dread because no interpreter means no extra ears.No witnesses.
I match his expression and gesture toward the examination area. “I can take a look. Come with me.” Turning on my heel, I lead him down the corridor, acutely aware of how quickly the other two fall in step behind us without being invited.
When I slow, just slightly, the man smiles at me again and gently insists, “They are with me. For my comfort.”
For his security.
Every instinct in me screams as we make our way further from the bustling waiting room.Stop. Call for help. Pawn them off on another physician.But refusing to treat him would draw attention and questions. Scrutiny I cannot afford after the other week.Especially not after the other week.
The exam room is small—too small. There is barely enough space for an exam table and a rolling stool, so when the door clicks shut, it feels practically claustrophobic with the four of us sealed inside. Swallowing down my unease, I gesture for the injured man to take a seat on the table.
“Tell me what happened.” I snap on a pair of nitrile gloves, the barrier more for my discomfort than hygiene.
He flexes his wrist, slowly rotating it. “I fell.”
“That’s all?”
“That is enough. Is it not?” he replies with a tinge of amusement in his tone.
I close the little distance between us and take his wrist in my gloved hands. Running my fingers along his skin, I lightly palpate his wrist. There is no swelling. It’s not warm to the touch. He doesn’t have even the tiniest reaction when I apply a little pressure to test for tenderness. There is nothing wrong.
I straighten slowly, my spine going rigid as I realize his poor theatrics were solely to get the three of them alone with me. My gaze darts to the door over my shoulder, finding one of the men resting against it. Before I can speak, the third, standing immediately behind me, gruffly whispers, “Where isMaryam?”
He’s so close that his words physically blow down the back of my neck, setting the hairs on end.
My heart races so hard and fast I’m sure they can hear it. At a minimum, they must see it pulsing in my throat. I swallow hard, choking down the bile rising in my throat. Years of rehearsed demeanor fail me, and my voice cracks when I respond, “I told your guys last week, I don’t know.”
The man on the exam table sighs, clearly disappointed with my answer. “And our friends told you last week, they know you are lying. They knew it as much as I know you are lying again right now.”
I carefully strip off my gloves and toss them into the open trash can beside me. My palms are damp with sweat, and I drag them along my thighs in a futile attempt to dry them.
“There was no call to claim her body,” the man at the door shares, his voice so calm it sounds conversational. “So, we know you did not let her die.” He takes a step closer and pulls a small knife from his pocket. Without brandishing it, he simply holds it with the point angled slightly toward me. “Do you know what the punishment is for disobeying the decision of her husband?”
My mouth goes dry. “Yes,” I barely manage to choke out the word. The man presses the tip of his blade beneath my chin. It’s not hard, but it pushes into my skin just enough to erase any remaining illusion of safety. “I don’t know where she is. I swear.”
The man with the knife cocks his head slightly to the side. “You expect us to believe that you violated the law, shamed her husband, risked your life… and then simply let her disappear?”
I don’t answer because I don’t know how. The truth—that I chose her life over my own safety—is not a confession that will do anything to help me escape from this room.
The man behind me steps closer, leaving me uncomfortably sandwiched between the two of them. “She was alive when she left this hospital. That much we know.”
“I’m a doctor,” I snap, fighting against my fear. “I do not track my patients after they leave. I did my job. Nothing more.”
