"You were..." My voice rasps from disuse, or maybe from screaming during the rescue I barely remember.
"Three years ago." Maggie doesn't need me to finish the question. "Different operation, same nightmare. The Saints Outlaws found me in a basement in Seattle." She gestures to the space between us. "Mind if I sit? Not too close."
I manage a jerky nod, inching out from my hiding place as she settles on the floor a few feet away. Not looming over me. Not trapping me against the wall. Small mercies I've learned to appreciate.
"The other women?" I ask.
"Safe. Being looked after. The children are with social services—the good kind, with people we trust." Maggie's face softens. "You all got out. Every one of you."
Something loosens in my chest. In the container, we'd whispered promises to remember each other if any of us made it out. To tell someone we existed.
"How long have I been here?"
"About thirty-six hours. Doc had to sedate you." She watches my reaction carefully. "You were fighting pretty hard. Took three of the guys to hold you down while Doc got the needle in."
Another memory surfaces—thrashing against restraining hands, the feeling of a needle, the certainty I was being drugged for transport again. I'd bitten someone. Tasted blood.
"I'm sorry," I whisper.
Maggie shakes her head. "Don't apologize for surviving. We've all been there."
I try to stand, suddenly determined to prove I can, but my legs fold beneath me. Maggie doesn't move to help, somehow understanding that her touch would make it worse.
"Your body's been through hell," she says matter-of-factly. "Malnutrition, dehydration, muscle atrophy. Doc says you've got three broken ribs, a recently healed collarbone fracture, and enough scar tissue to tell a five-year story nobody wants to hear."
I try again, using the bed for support, ignoring the trembling in my arms.
"I need to—" What? Run? Where would I go? Who would I be?" I need to move. Please."
Maggie nods. "Bathroom's through that door. I can help, or I can wait here. Your call."
"Wait," I say immediately, then soften my tone. "Please."
She settles back against the wall. "Take your time. I'll be right here."
I shuffle toward the bathroom, dragging the IV stand with me. Each step is a victory against the weakness in my body. Against them.
The first time I fought back, a man with tattoos covering his neck had laughed. "Fiery one," he'd said, before breaking my finger. "We'll fix that." The second time, they broke my arm. By the third time, I'd learned to make them think they'd broken my spirit instead.
In the bathroom, I catch my first clear look at myself in five years. The woman in the mirror is a stranger. Hollowed cheeks. Dark shadows beneath eyes that seem too large for my face. My collarbones protrude sharply beneath skin that's ghostly pale. My hair, once my pride, hangs in dull strands around my shoulders.
I wasn't allowed mirrors in captivity. They said it was because we didn't need to see what we were becoming. I think it was because they didn't want us to see ourselves as human.
I splash water on my face, wincing at the tenderness around my right eye, the healing split in my lip. When I return to the bedroom, Maggie is arranging a small tray of food—toast, apple slices, a bowl of something that might be soup.
"Start small," she advises. "Your stomach needs to remember how to work properly."
I nod, sinking onto the edge of the bed. The toast feels like sandpaper in my mouth, but I force myself to chew and swallow. One slice. Two apple pieces. Three spoonfuls of soup. Small victories.
"Falcon," I say finally, my voice steadier now. "Is he?—?"
Something flickers across Maggie's face. "He's around. Running things." She studies me with new interest. "You know him? Before, I mean."
I look down at my hands, at the place where a ring once sat. A lifetime ago. "Something like that."
Maggie doesn't press, but I can see her connecting dots. "He hasn't told anyone," she says finally. "Whatever your connection is. But something's been off with him since the raid. Never seen him so—" She searches for the word. "Haunted."
Before I can respond, voices in the hallway grow louder. I tense, listening.
