"Traci, this is Dr. Sage." Jennifer keeps her voice gentle. "She's going to do a medical exam to make sure you're healing properly."
Traci stands perfectly still. Doesn't nod, doesn't acknowledge the introduction, just watches us both with those wary eyes.
I step back, giving her space. "Come inside. It's warm, and there's hot chocolate if you want it."
Still nothing. But she follows Jennifer through the door, moving with the careful precision of someone who's learned that sudden movements draw attention.
I settle them in exam room two. Jennifer takes the chair by the window, positioning herself where Traci can see her but far enough away not to feel trapped. Good instincts.
"Traci, I'm going to examine some of your injuries to make sure they're healing correctly." I keep my voice steady, professional. "I won't do anything without explaining it first. If you want me to stop at any point, just raise your hand. Okay?"
Traci's eyes flicker to mine. Brief contact, searching for something. Threat assessment, maybe. Or the desperate hope that this time an adult might actually keep their promises.
I pull on exam gloves and start with the basics. Blood pressure elevated, heart and respiratory rates both running high—all consistent with chronic stress and trauma. Pupils reactive, no signs of head trauma or neurological damage. I move slowly, narrating each step, giving her time to process and object if she needs to.
When I examine her arms, I find what I expected and what makes me want to break things. Healing bruises circle bothwrists in distinct bands, approximately two inches wide, left by restraints worn for extended periods. Track marks dot the inside of her left elbow where someone administered repeated IV access. Given the trafficking context, likely sedation, though I can't know for certain without toxicology. Defensive wounds cross her forearms in thin white lines, healed cuts where she tried to protect herself from something or someone.
I measure the restraint marks carefully. Depth of bruising suggests prolonged wear, probably weeks rather than days. Skin underneath shows early signs of nerve damage from restricted circulation.
"You're healing well," I tell her, meeting her eyes directly. "Your body is doing exactly what it's supposed to do. The bruising will fade in another few weeks. The muscle strain from the restraints will take longer, but we can work on exercises to help with that."
Traci watches me. Eyes taking in every movement, listening to every word, still deciding whether to believe any of it.
I continue the examination, checking for other injuries. Malnutrition is obvious in the prominence of her clavicles and ribs, the way her jeans hang loose despite the belt cinched tight. Hair shows signs of stress-related loss, coming out in patches near her temples. Fingernails bitten down to the quick.
When I examine her ankles, I find matching restraint marks. Same width, same pattern, same evidence of prolonged binding. Traci's jaw tightens and her breathing changes—just for a second—like she's remembering something specific. Then her face goes blank again, focus sliding away from me.
I finish the examination and step back. "You did really well. I know this is hard. I know you don't have any reason to trust me or anyone else right now. But I want you to know that you're safe here. This clinic doesn't report to systems that compromise your privacy. Nobody gets information about youwithout your consent. And if you decide you want to talk about what happened, I'll listen. If you don't, that's okay too."
Her shoulders drop slightly. Not trust, exactly. But maybe the beginning of it.
Jennifer gathers her paperwork. "We've placed Traci in temporary foster care while we locate her uncle. Federal marshals are tracking him down, but it might take a week or more."
"Her uncle?" I pull up the intake form Jennifer handed me earlier, scanning for details. Emergency contact: Eli Vance. Relationship: paternal uncle. Last known location: unknown. Status: off-grid, former military.
"Former Delta Force, from what we can determine." Jennifer keeps her voice low, conscious of Traci listening. "He went off-grid a few years back. No current address, no phone number. But he's Traci's only living family. Her father died years ago, mother's whereabouts unknown."
Former Delta Force operator who disappeared into the Alaskan wilderness. That profile fits several men I know here in the Talon Mountain area, people who came back from combat carrying damage they couldn't process in civilized spaces. Men who walked into isolation because it felt safer than trying to function around people who expected them to be whole.
"Any idea how long it'll take to find him?"
"Federal marshals estimate a week or more. Alaska's a big state, and if he doesn't want to be found, he won't be easy to locate."
I look at Traci, silent and watching. Weeks in foster care, surrounded by strangers, waiting for an uncle she hasn't seen in years. Weeks feeling like a target while the people who trafficked her figure out if she's a liability worth eliminating.
"Bring her back in a few days," I tell Jennifer. "I want to monitor the healing process and make sure there's no infectiondeveloping. And if she needs anything before then, call me. Day or night."
"Thank you, Dr. Sage."
They leave through the waiting room. I watch through the window as Jennifer helps Traci into the vehicle, moving with the careful patience of someone who understands that every interaction matters. Traci climbs in, silent and watchful, like she's waiting for the next blow to fall.
I spend the rest of the afternoon updating her medical file and cleaning exam room two. Standard protocol: fresh sheets on the examination table, sterilize instruments, restock supplies.
When I wipe down the counter, I find smudges where Traci's hand had gripped the edge during the blood pressure check. The outline of her fingers is still visible in the latent impression, like she was holding on hard enough to anchor herself while I measured her vitals.
Something about that detail makes me pause. Such a small thing, fingers pressed against laminate while she endured examination by another stranger who claimed to want to help. I clean the smudges carefully, wondering how many times she's held on like that, wondering how many more times she'll need to before she feels safe again.
Outside my window, Alaska stretches in every direction: mountains sharp against gray sky, snow settling in drifts that'll stay frozen until spring, wilderness that doesn't care if you survive it or not. Beautiful and brutal.
