The men had moved to the hood of the van. The tall man was lighting another cigarette, while the shorter one, built like aconcrete block with a shaved head, was checking his phone. Both men turned when Harper approached.
She lifted her chin, ignoring the rattle of her pulse at the base of her throat. Every sensible part of her knew better than to corner two men beside an idling van in a town where no one asked questions.
Harper walked toward them anyway. “I need to speak with you about your workers’ conditions.”
The tall one smiled. “Of course, Doctor. What seems to be the problem?”
Harper jerked her head toward the van. “The women you are bringing to me have injuries that aren’t consistent with what you’d receive carrying out normal hospitality roles.”
The men exchanged a look, and the shorter one pocketed his phone.
“Doctor,” the tall one said, his voice warm with fake concern. “I understand your worry. These women work in difficult conditions. Mining town bars, you know how it is. Some customers don’t behave well?—"
“Those injuries aren’t from bar fights.”
Silence.
Her cheeks heated, and she dug her fingernails into her palms. “I know what restraint marks look like.”
The tall one’s smile didn’t waver, but something reptilian flashed in his eyes. “The local authorities already understand.” He bared his teeth. “And you’re not the first foreign doctor to have concerns.”
“I’ll be documenting this.”
“That would be unwise.” The shorter one spoke for the first time. “You’re very dedicated to your work, Doctor. It would be a shame if something happened to you.”
Harper pressed her elbows against her sides. “Are you threatening me?”
“We’re advising you.” The tall one took a drag from his cigarette. “You’re far from home, Doctor. Things are different here.”
He flicked the cigarette past her, onto the ground near the clinic door. “Stay safe, Doctor.”
They got in the van and drove away, tires spitting stones. Harper noted their registration plate as the dust settled.
The sun was already low, the day thinning toward dusk. The air bit through her coat, but she barely felt it over the adrenaline singing through her system.
International Health Outreach had warned her the posting would be isolated. Nine months in, she’d treated everything from difficult births to frostbite to a man mauled by a dog who’d waited three days before seeking help. Out here, no one cared about her CV or what she should have been by now. They just cared whether she showed up.
She’d adapted to the cold, the isolation, the wary looks, the conversations that stopped when she entered a room. She hadn’t come here to build a life. Just to do some good, breathe for a while, and decide what came next—on her own terms.
But this was different. This had teeth.
Harper stalked back to her office, heart still hammering beneath her ribs. Theofficewas a converted storage room with a desk and a space heater that worked when the planets were aligned with Jupiter. She pulled Polina’s file and stared at the notes she’d just written.
Patient presents with bruising consistent with ligature restraint. Physical abuse? Patient denies, states injuries from fall. Recommend follow-up in 3 days.
She yanked open the filing cabinet but the drawer stuck halfway.
“Come on,” she muttered, jerking it harder until it screeched loose.
The folders were color-coded by year, a legacy from her predecessor, and sorted alphabetically within each section. Harper pulled the ones from the past nine months, and then selected all the women and spread them across her desk. She pulled every file listing Vostok Hospitality as the employer.
Waitresses, cleaners, kitchen staff in the mining camps. Harper’s pulse picked up as she flipped through charts. Thirty women aged between nineteen and twenty-five.
All worked hospitality.
Bruised ribs. Broken noses. Fractured fingers that healed crooked. Burns. UTIs. All missing follow-ups.
Her fingers shook as she opened the appointment calendar. The ancient clinic computer hummed and flickered, taking its time. She scrolled back through nine months of entries, cross-referencing follow-up appointments with the files spread across her desk.
