The eye in the slot blinked. Nervous men still worried about consequences.
Harper pressed her advantage. “I’m not asking for morphine. Just basic first aid. Bandages. Antiseptic. Ibuprofen. Things you can buy at any pharmacy.”
“I’ll ask the boss.”
The slot slammed shut.
Harper closed her eyes, breathing hard, adrenaline making her pulse race. Behind her, the women had gathered Sasha up, moving her to an empty bunk, tucking thin blankets around her. A week ago, they’d watched Harper with wary, exhausted eyes. Now they helped without being asked and listened when she spoke.
Harper crossed to Sasha’s bunk. “How do you feel?”
“My head hurts.”
“I’m sure it does.” Harper checked her pupils again. Still equal. “Any dizziness? Nausea?”
“Just pain.”
“That’s actually good.” Harper managed something close to a smile. “Pain means you’re aware. We’ll watch you, make sure it doesn’t get worse.”
Sasha’s hand shot out, grabbed Harper’s wrist. Her grip was surprisingly strong. “Where are they taking us?”
Harper’s stomach twisted. “I don’t know.”
But she could guess. Across the border first. Then split apart. Sold into brothels, private houses, back rooms in cities big enough to swallow women whole. And once the men moved them, they’d be almost impossible to find.
The door banged open, and the same guard stood in the doorway holding a small plastic box. He grunted, laid it on the floor, and backed away, slamming the door behind him.
Harper opened the box. Relief flared and died just as quickly. It wasn’t enough. But it wassomething. Gauze bandages, adhesive tape, a small bottle of antiseptic, and a blister pack of ibuprofen.
She returned to Sasha and properly cleaned the wound. Sasha flinched when it foamed, but didn’t pull away.
“You’re doing great,” Harper murmured, working carefully. The gash cleaned, she applied a gauze pad and secured it with tape. She handed Sasha two ibuprofen with water. “These will help with the pain.”
Sasha swallowed them. “Thank you.”
Harper packed the remaining supplies carefully.
“Will I be okay?” Sasha asked.
Harper met her terrified eyes and lied as if it was medicine. “Yes. You’ll be okay.”
We have to be.
The afternoon dragged into evening.
Harper sat on the edge of her bunk. The barrack had gone as quiet as it ever got—hushed conversation, breathing, someone murmuring in sleep.
She pressed her fingers to her eyes.
A week gone. No one was coming. The email had gone—she’d hit send, she was almost sure of it—but almost sure wasn’t the same as certain, and in the dark it was hard to hold onto. Her family would look for her. If the director had passed it on.
If.
She dropped her hands before anyone saw. Twelve women were watching her like she knew what to do. Some mornings she almost believed it herself.
Keys clinked and the guards wheeled in dinner—a watery stew that smelled like old vegetables and questionable meat. Harper stood up and squared her shoulders. The women held their cups with both hands, careful not to spill a drop. Harper grabbed two cups, one for herself and one for Sasha.
The guard with the dead eyes and the wet smile was serving tonight. Harper reached the front of the line and held out both cups.
