I laugh. It comes out wrong. Broken. “That’s not…this isn’t safe. I don’t know where I am.”
“I know,” she says. “I know it doesn’t feel that way. But you are.” Her voice doesn’t change. That’s the thing that keeps me from completely losing it. It doesn’t spike. Doesn’t rush. It stays steady like she’s done this before. Like she knows what this looks like. “Listen to me,” she continues. “My name is Brooke. You’re at a clubhouse. You were brought here because someone tried to take you.”
The words hit.
Take you.
My stomach flips.
The memory pushes forward again. The van. The hands. The needle.
I suck in a breath. Too sharp. Too fast. “I…no…there was—”
“You don’t have to remember it all right now,” Brooke says quickly. “That’ll come back later. What matters is you’re here, and you’re okay.”
“I’m not okay,” I say, my voice breaking fully now. “I’m in a place I don’t know with people I don’t—” My gaze shifts.
I see more of the room. A doorway. Shadows moving past it. Voices beyond it. Male. Too many.
My chest tightens harder. “No,” I whisper. “No, no, no—”
“They’re not coming in,” Brooke says immediately. “You’re in a private room. No one’s coming in unless you say it’s okay. I promise.”
I shake my head again. “You can’t promise that.”
“I can,” she says. And the way she says it is not defensive, not trying to convince me. Just…certain.
It slows something. Not the panic. But the spiral. My breathing stutters again, still too fast, still too shallow, but not climbing higher.
Brooke watches me carefully. “Look at me,” she says softly.
I do. I don’t know why. I just do.
“Breathe,” she says. “In through your nose. Slow. Then out.”
I try. It doesn’t work the first time. Or the second. But by the third, something shifts. My chest loosens just enough to pull in a full breath. Then another.Not steady. Not calm. But better.
“That’s it,” she murmurs. “You’re doing okay.”
I shake my head weakly. “I’m not.”
“You are,” she says. “It just doesn’t feel like it yet.”
My grip tightens on the blanket beneath me. The IV tugs again. I wince. “Can you take this out?” I ask, my voice small now, raw. “Please, I don’t—”
“Not yet,” she says gently. “Doc put that in to help you. You were drugged. We need to make sure it’s out of your system safely.”
Drugged.
The word lands heavy.
Real.
My throat tightens again. “I need to go,” I say, the thought pushing forward with urgency now. “I need to get out of here. I need to call my family—”
“It’s okay,” Brooke says. “We have your phone. It’s broken, but we can get you another one. You can call them. Just, give it a minute.”
A minute.
