“I have your research, doctor. You wrote about a drug cocktail that can cure this disease without a transplant. I have secured an ample supply of everything you will need, and enough O negative blood to keep Mateen from worsening while you concoct the cure.”
“I wrote this seven years ago,” I protest. “It’s all theory. No one’s ever tested this. It’s too risky. There’s a reason this never went beyond the paper stage. A bone marrow transplant is safe. This…if anything goes wrong—even if everything goes right—the treatment could kill Mateen!”
“No,” Faruk shouts. “There will be no transplant. You will treat him, and you will cure him. Or you will die.” With a nod to Zaman, he barks out an order to Lisette, who flees from the room with Mateen.
I’m grabbed from behind, spun around, and pushed towards the door we entered through.
Struggling to free myself from Zaman’s painful grip does me no good. He steers me down a set of stairs, through several turns and a long hallway, and into a small suite with a bed, a nightstand, a single lamp, and a tiny bathroom.
Several sets of folded clothes sit on top of the woven blankets on the bed, and an alarm clock, four bottles of water, and three granola bars rest on the nightstand. My stomach twists in on itself. I’m so hungry, the sight of food makes me dizzy.
Zaman pushes me down onto the bed, takes my hands, and cuts the duct tape from my wrists. Before I can rise, Faruk enters the room, blocking the doorway. “Tomorrow morning at 9:00 a.m., Zaman will come to collect you. If you are not ready to start work on the cure, you will suffer the consequences.”
I’m too shocked to say a word as he and Zaman leave, but when the door slams, I race for it, slapping the wood with my palms as a heavy lock thunks. There’s no handle, and I sink to the ground, tears burning my eyes. Ivy and Mia…they’re going to be sold. And me? My research was all theoretical. There’s no way a drug cocktail can cure Mateen. He’ll die, and Faruk will kill me.
5
Joey
I don’t know how long I stay curled on the floor, but eventually, I push myself to my knees. Despite my exhaustion and hunger, I force myself to scour the room for any sort of weapon.
Nothing. Well, except for the toothbrush, but after days trapped with nothing but a sputtering sink offering brackish water, I’m so desperate to have clean teeth again, I abandon my search and spend ten minutes brushing until my gums bleed.
Catching sight of myself in the mirror, I quickly avert my eyes. I’ve lost at least ten pounds. My hair looks like the world’s worst wig, and my eyes are sunken and bruised from all the crying.
The desire for a shower is almost overwhelming, but I’m so tired. So hungry. So scared. A quick check of the clock tells me it’s close to midnight, and apparently I have to be ready at 9:00 a.m. in the morning, so I sink down onto the mattress and rip into the first granola bar. It’s stale, but it tastes better than anything I’ve ever eaten.
It takes all the willpower I have not to eat through the whole stash. With how little they’ve fed me, if I have more than one, I’ll probably be sick. And who knows how long I need to make the remaining bars last. So instead, I wash the dry crumbs down with half a bottle of water, then take the pillow and move to the door.
I want to lie down in that bed. To sleep like a normal person. But…I can’t. I can’t let anyone sneak up on me. In the dark place…the place before the police came, the traffickers’ favorite trick was to wait until one of us was sleeping, then grab us by the hair and force themselves on us. I won’t let that happen again. If Faruk or his men try to use me, I’ll fight with everything I have—even if it kills me. And I’m damn sure going to see it coming.
With my back to the door, I set the alarm for seven and close my eyes. The pillow feels so nice, and it’s been so long since I’ve slept, but every half an hour or so, I jerk awake, convinced someone’s coming for me. Footsteps outside, the odd creak of the walls or the slamming of a door somewhere above me…each sound could be the last I hear.
At least I’m not in the dark. The lamp by the bed casts a yellowish glow and the bathroom tiles almost shine in the light of the harsh, naked bulb hanging over the sink. The barest hint of comfort in this terrifying new reality.
Staring at the clock only makes me feel worse, so I turn it face down and give up trying to be strong. Hot tears stain my cheeks, and I pray for just an hour of sleep where my nightmares won’t find me.
The alarm jolts me out of a nightmare—a large blob coming towards me, shapeless, faceless, absorbing me until there’s nothing left. No emotion. No fight. No will to live.
I have two hours before they come—if Faruk was telling the truth. On edge, but more awake than I’ve been in several days, I re-examine the room, looking for cameras. Nothing obvious, but the ceiling is made of wooden planks, and there are small gaps between a few of them.
In the bathroom, I find two rough towels and use one to cover the mirror. I’m filthy, and so desperate to be clean again. The water is only lukewarm, but it’s mostly clear, and with one last look around the tiny room, I screw up my courage and discard my stained and ripped clothing before stepping under the flow.
The shampoo smells like flowers—not totally unpleasant—and I lather my hair three times before I feel like I’ve finally removed the dirt, sweat, and blood from the past…however long it’s been.
The new scratches on my arm and inner thigh are mostly healed, but one of them still stings, and the pain helps me focus.
Survive. Fight. Find a way out.
I brush my teeth again and wrap myself in the second towel before checking out the clothes. Three sets: a burnt orange, a dark brown, and a garish yellow. I swallow my tears as I put on the plain, serviceable white bra and panties. I want to go home. But I’m terrified I’ll never see the United States again. Choosing the orange, the least awful color, I pull on the pants. They’re loose from my unintentional weight loss, but otherwise fit almost perfectly. As does the long-sleeved tunic. Even the soft slippers are the right size. Of course they are. He planned this. Planned to grab me.
My hospital published a news story about my trip—noteworthy because Turkmenistan hasn’t allowed an aid mission in more than ten years. Faruk knew I’d be there, knew I’d be vulnerable.
Somehow, when I thought this was all a case of wrong place/wrong time, it was easier to handle. I didn’t realize until just now how tightly I was clinging to the idea that maybe I’d be ransomed. That perhaps the government would intervene. But Faruk planned everything. And from the little I saw of the compound last night, it’s huge—and well-guarded.
The clothes feel so much nicer than I want against my skin. I should hate everything about this place. But after a week in the same cotton t-shirt and rough black pants, the abaya and boshiya smothering me, this is like heaven.
Several dull-tipped hairpins rest on top of the black hijab, and I arrange the material to hide my damp locks and secure it in place.
