“Hello?” My voice cracks as I step into a narrow, dim hallway. “Is anyone there?”
An elderly woman appears at the far end, and we both jump, terrified of each other. She clutches her sweater with one hand and snaps something sharp in a language I don’t understand, waving her free hand as if shooing away a stray animal.
“I—I’m sorry,” I stammer. “I don’t understand. Do you speak English?”
She doesn’t answer and disappears.
My pulse pounds in my ears. Is she calling someone? Someone dangerous? Someone who knows where I am?
She returns a moment later with a phone in one hand and a wooden broom in the other, held like she’s ready to swing it at my skull. She taps furiously on the screen, then slides the phonetoward me across the floor never taking her eyes off me, broom raised between us.
Who are you?
My throat dries. My fingers tremble as I type back.
My name is Birdie. I think… I think someone drugged me. I don’t know where I am.
I slide the phone back toward her and sag against the wall as nausea claws up my throat. A wave of chills sweeps through me, so violent I can barely keep hold of myself.
The woman reads my message, her lined face pinching with worry or suspicion. It’s impossible to tell. She types again, slower this time, then slides the phone toward me with the broom still held defensively.
You’re in Polignano a Mare. I can feed you, but you can’t stay here.
I blink at the words.
Polignano a… what? Where even is that?
My stomach curls tighter as I type.
Do you know where I can find help? The US Embassy? A police station?
I push the phone back to her.
This time, she doesn’t type anything. Instead, she lifts the phone and dials someone. Her voice rises, urgent and fast, the words spilling out in Italian, if that’s even what it is.
Italy.
Is that where I am? My heart slams against my ribs. Because if I’m in Italy then I am so much farther from home than I ever imagined.
She ends the call and then types something, sliding the phone toward me.
My nephew is coming over. He speaks English.
I feel relief but at the same time I’m worried. What if her nephew is one of the men who brought me here?
But I type back:Thank you.
She hums under her breath, then jerks her chin for me to follow. I trail after her through a narrow maze of hallways, my footsteps soft, my pulse loud in my ears. The walls are close, worn smooth by time, the air heavy with old stone and something faintly savory. When we reach the kitchen, recognition clicks into place. Industrial sinks. Steel counters. Racks of pans hanging that are well-loved and used. It must be some kind of restaurant.
She moves with practiced efficiency, lifting a towel to reveal a loaf of bread nestled beneath it. Her hands don’t shake when she slices it. Two clean cuts with no waste. She drops the pieces onto a chipped plate and finally motions for me to sit on a barstool by the counter—far enough away that I can’t reach her if I wanted to.
I sit.
She slides the plate toward me, then steps back, her eyes never leaving my hands.
Mine tremble as I lift the bread. I half-expect her to snatch it away. But she doesn’t. She just watches, tense and wary, as if feeding me might be a mistake she’s already regretting.
The first bite is overwhelming. Warm. Dense. Real. It tastes like safety in a way that makes my throat tighten. I don’t slow down. I don’t savor it. I eat like the bread might vanish if I hesitate, like this small mercy could be revoked at any second. I don’t stop until both pieces are gone.
