Always organized.
The inside of the truck smells like diesel fuel, sweat, and old blood.
Three other captives sit along the side benches.
Two men.
One teenage girl.
All terrified.
The girl can’t be older than sixteen.
Her eyes flick toward me immediately.
Fear flashes across her face.
Then recognition.
“Doctor,” she whispers.
I nod once and move carefully toward her as the truck doors slam shut behind us.
“You hurt?”
She shakes her head quickly.
One of the men beside her isn’t as lucky.
Gunshot wound through the thigh.
Poorly wrapped bandage.
Too much blood.
Infection risk is already climbing.
I crouch beside him automatically.
“How long ago?”
“Yesterday,” he grits out.
Not good.
The truck lurches violently into motion before I can examine the wound properly.
Outside, engines roar across rough terrain while distant artillery echoes faintly somewhere far ahead.
My stomach tightens.
That direction matters.
I glance toward the rear canvas flap where thin strips of early morning light bleed through the seams.
East.
We’re moving east.
