Three days passed before Mark returned.

—

On the first night, Elishia had asked Dr. Chen where he might have gone. She’d waited until he was washing dishes at the small sink behind the reception desk, the sound of clinking ceramics filling the silence between them.

“Doctor?” Her voice came out smaller than she’d intended. “Do you know where Mark went?”

The old man’s hands stilled for just a moment before continuing their methodical scrubbing. Without turning around, he shrugged, his shoulders rising and falling with practiced indifference.

“Who knows? That boy disappears whenever he feels like it. Always has.” He lifted a chipped bowl, examining it in the dim light. “He always comes back—usually half-dead and twice as stubborn, but he comes back.”

The way he said it, so matter-of-fact, made something twist in Elishia’s stomach. Usually half-dead. What kind of life was that? What kind of person just accepted that as normal?

She opened her mouth to ask more, but Dr. Chen had already moved on, stacking the clean dishes with the careful precision of someone who’d done this routine a thousand times before.

That was all he said.

So Elishia let it go.

Sort of.

The next morning dragged by with the weight of wet concrete. She woke to sunlight filtering through the grimy window of the makeshift bedroom, the storage-room-turned-sanctuary that smelled perpetually of rubbing alcohol and industrial laundry soap. Her shoulder throbbed—a dull, persistent reminder of everything that had happened—but the sharp, tearing pain had dulled to something more manageable.

Still no sign of Mark.

But instead of spending another entire day trapped between these four walls, suffocating on her own thoughts and the antiseptic air, Elishia made a decision. She found Dr. Chen organizing medical supplies in the main room, his movements precise despite his age.

“Doctor, I was wondering…” She paused, suddenly feeling like a child asking permission to go outside. “Could I maybe stretch my legs a bit? Walk around?”

He glanced up from the box of gauze he was sorting, his weathered face unreadable. “You feeling better?”

“The bandages stopped leaking yesterday,” she said, lifting her good arm slightly. “And I can walk without limping now. I just… I need to move. I’m going stir-crazy in there.”

Dr. Chen studied her for a long moment, those sharp eyes taking in her posture, the way she held herself. Finally, he nodded.

“Moving around’s better than rotting in bed, I suppose. Your muscles need the work.” His expression hardened slightly. “But don’t even think about going outside. The streets out there don’t like strays, and I’m not in the mood to patch up whatever’s left of you if they decide you don’t belong.”

The casual way he said it—like it was just another fact of life in this place—sent a chill down her spine. But she nodded gratefully.

“Thank you. I won’t go far.”

So she wandered the clinic, her bare feet silent on the worn linoleum floors. The building was smaller than she’d initially realized—just the main room with its examination table and Dr. Chen’s desk, a tiny kitchen area with a hot plate and mini-fridge, a bathroom barely large enough to turn around in, and the storage room where she’d been sleeping. The hallway connecting everything was maybe twenty feet long, lined with faded health posters that looked like they’d been hanging there since the previous decade.

She found herself gravitating toward the front window, a large but grimy pane of glass that offered the only real view of the outside world. The street beyond was narrow and bustling—nothing like the quiet suburban roads back home in Trillen. Here, people moved with purpose, their faces set in expressions of determination or wariness. Children darted between adults’ legs, their laughter bright against the backdrop of honking scooters and vendors calling out their wares.

This is so different from home, she thought, watching a woman in a bright yellow headscarf haggle with a fruit vendor. 

She waited for Dr. Chen to ask questions. Surely, any normal person would be curious about the injured girl who’d shown up in the middle of the night, covered in blood and barely conscious. What happened that night? Who are you really? Where did those wounds come from? Why was that boy carrying you like his life depended on it?

But the old man never asked.

Not once.

It was… almost unsettling. Back home, Mrs. Patterson from next door would have had her entire life story extracted within the first hour, complete with speculation about her family history and opinions about her life choices. But Dr. Chen treated her presence like it was the most natural thing in the world—just another patient who needed care, no questions required.

Maybe that’s how it works here, she mused, pressing her forehead against the cool glass. Maybe asking too many questions is dangerous.

By mid-afternoon, with boredom gnawing at her insides like a living thing and unease settling deeper into her bones, Elishia decided she needed answers. She found Dr. Chen cleaning glass jars behind the reception desk, his movements methodical and peaceful.

“Doctor?” She approached slowly, not wanting to startle him. “Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“Where… is this place, exactly?” The question felt both simple and enormous. “I mean, what city? What country?”

“District of Dalton,” he said without looking up from the jar he was polishing. “In Troas Country. About as close to the middle of nowhere as you can get while still having running water.” He paused, glancing at her with mild curiosity. “Why? You lose track of where you were going?”

Her stomach dropped like a stone through water. Troas. She’d heard the name before, but only in passing—geography lessons from school that had felt irrelevant at the time.

“Troas,” she repeated, testing the word on her tongue. “Do you… do you know Trillen Country?”

“Sure. Neighboring coast. Day and a half away by boat if the weather’s decent, maybe two days if it’s not.” He said it so casually, like he was talking about the distance to the corner store.

Just one country over.

Then I’m not too far from home…

Hope flickered to life in her chest like a struck match—small and fragile, but burning bright. Maybe this wasn’t as hopeless as she’d thought. Maybe—just maybe—if she could scrape together some money, she could leave. Get out of here. Go back home and pretend none of this had ever happened. Forget the warehouse, forget the terror, forget the way Mark had looked at her like she was something precious and breakable.

The thought made her pulse quicken.

“Are there…” Her next question tumbled out fast, propelled by sudden desperate hope. “Are there any ships going to Trillen? Or boats? Regular transport?”

That was when Dr. Chen finally paused in his cleaning and looked at her properly. Really looked at her. His expression shifted—tightened—and something like concern flickered across his weathered features.

“The only ships sailing from here regularly are big merchant freighters,” he said slowly, setting down the jar. “Cargo ships, fuel barges, oil tankers. Industrial stuff.” He started ticking off on his fingers. “They go to Burdd mostly, further east along the trade routes. Not Trillen. Trillen’s too small, doesn’t have the ports for that kind of traffic.”

Her heart began to sink, but she pressed on. “Then… what about any that might go to Trillen? Even occasionally?”

He gave a tired sigh, the kind that spoke of too many conversations like this one.

“Maybe some luxury liners that dock at the city center. Cruise ships for rich tourists who want to see the ‘authentic coastal experience.'” The way he said it made it clear what he thought of rich tourists. “But even those barely stop in Trillen—maybe once a month if you’re lucky. And they don’t come cheap. We’re talking thousands, not hundreds.”

The fragile hope she’d been nurturing crumbled quietly in her chest, leaving behind something that felt like ash.

Thousands. She barely had the clothes on her back, let alone thousands of anything.

Elishia nodded slowly, trying to keep the disappointment from showing on her face. “I see… Thank you for telling me.”

Dr. Chen studied her for another moment, and she thought she saw something like sympathy in his eyes. But all he said was, “Life’s like that sometimes. Never quite as simple as we hope.”

That night, she lay awake in the storage-room-turned-bedroom, staring at the network of hairline cracks that spread across the ceiling like a map of all the places she couldn’t go. The thin mattress beneath her was lumpy and smelled faintly of disinfectant, but it was warmer and safer than anywhere she’d been in days.

Should I just tell him?

The thought had been circling in her mind like a vulture, growing bolder with each pass. Tell the doctor everything—about the kidnapping, about what those men had planned to do to her, about how Mark had saved her life. Beg for money, offer to work for it. She could clean floors, help with patients, organize supplies—anything to earn enough for passage home.

But something held her back. Maybe it was the way Dr. Chen had looked at her when she’d asked about boats—that flash of concern, like he knew more about desperate girls trying to get home than he wanted to. Or maybe it was something deeper, a whisper of instinct that said sharing her story might put both of them in danger.

What if those men are still looking for me? What if telling someone makes it worse?

Her thoughts spun in frantic, quiet circles until exhaustion finally pulled her under.

And still, Mark didn’t come back.

****

The next morning arrived gray and listless, matching her mood perfectly.

She and Dr. Chen shared a simple breakfast in the small kitchen area—eggs that had seen better days, bread that could have doubled as a weapon, and tea that tasted like it had been made with leaves older than she was. But Elishia hardly touched any of it. Her stomach felt like it was tied in knots, and food seemed beside the point.

She poked at the rubbery eggs with her fork, chewing her bottom lip until it was raw.

I have to try something. I can’t just sit here forever.

At last, she gathered her courage and spoke.

“Doctor, is there… any way I can work? Around here, I mean.” She kept her eyes on her plate, not wanting to see pity in his expression. “I need to earn something. Anything. I’m good with my hands, I learn fast—”

“No.” Dr. Chen didn’t even look up from his tea.

“But my good arm is fine, and I could—”

“You’re injured.”

“I can still help with simple things. Filing, cleaning, organizing—”

“You’re injured.”

His tone was flat, firm, and immovable as a mountain. The kind of voice that brooked no argument, no negotiation, no desperate pleading from stranded girls with nowhere else to turn.

She shut her mouth, frustration and helplessness warring in her chest.

After a long pause filled only by the sound of Dr. Chen sipping his awful tea, she tried a different approach.

“Do you have a phone I could use?” Her voice came out quieter this time, almost apologetic.

“Why?”

“I just…” She hesitated, not sure how much to reveal. “I didn’t see any yesterday. I want to try calling someone. A friend. Maybe she can help.”

Dr. Chen studied her face for a moment, then reached into the drawer of his desk. He pulled out an ancient black flip phone—the kind that probably predated smartphones by a decade—and tossed it to her with practiced casualness.

“Don’t drop it,” he warned. “That thing’s been with me longer than Mark has, and it’s got more scars to prove it.”

Elishia caught it carefully, surprised by how solid it felt in her hands. “Thank you. I’ll be careful.”

She shuffled back to her bedroom, hope and anxiety battling for dominance in her chest. Sitting on the edge of the narrow bed, she flipped open the phone. The numbers were worn smooth from years of use, but still functional.

Jennie’s number. I have to remember Jennie’s number.

Her finger hovered over the keypad as she dredged up the digits from memory. Jennie Martinez, her best friend and co-worker, the only person who might actually worry if she disappeared without a trace. Jennie with her infectious laugh and her tendency to text at all hours of the night when she couldn’t sleep.

Please let this work. Please let her answer.

She dialed carefully, double-checking each number before pressing call.

The screen flashed: 

CALLING… CONNECTING…

Her heart hammered against her ribs as she waited, the phone pressed so tightly to her ear that it hurt.

Then:

“Unable to connect the call. Try again later.”

Her breath hitched. The automated message felt like a slap, cheerful and impersonal.

Maybe it’s just the network. Maybe I dialed wrong.

She tried again, forcing herself to go slower this time, making sure each digit was correct.

CALLING… CONNECTING…

“Unable to connect the call. Try again later.”

Again.

She stared at the tiny glowing screen until it faded to black, her reflection ghostly in the dark surface.

She set the phone down with trembling hands and lay back on the bed, staring at those ceiling cracks again.

There would be no help today. Not from Jennie. Not from anyone.

The silence was deafening.

****

The third day dawned with the same gray heaviness as the one before.

Elishia tried the flip phone again, because what else was there to do? She’d memorized every crack in the ceiling, counted every medical supply in the visible cabinets, and watched the same rotation of people pass by the front window until she could predict their schedules.

She dialed Jennie’s number again, her fingers trembling slightly though she wasn’t sure if it was from nerves or the lingering weakness in her body.

CALLING… CONNECTING…

Please… just this once…

“Unable to connect the call. Try again later.”

The words appeared on the tiny screen like a death sentence. Simple. Final. Devastating.

“Shit,” she whispered, the curse feeling inadequate for the magnitude of her disappointment.

She pressed the red button and stared blankly at the phone before snapping it shut with more force than necessary.

With a quiet sigh that contained all her frustration and growing despair, she returned the phone to Dr. Chen. He was sitting at his desk, reading a newspaper that looked like it had been through several other readers before reaching him.

“Didn’t go through?” he asked without looking up from an article about rising grain prices.

“No.” She tried not to sound too crushed, but failed. 

He hummed something noncommittal under his breath and turned the page. “That’s how it goes sometimes.”

She wanted to scream at his casual acceptance, his shrug-it-off attitude toward her mounting desperation. But she held her tongue. He was helping her, after all. Feeding her, sheltering her, asking for nothing in return. She had no right to demand more.

But God, I feel so helpless.

The rest of the day moved by like molasses in winter. Elishia drifted around the small clinic like a ghost, taking slow walks down the short corridor, reorganizing the magazines in the waiting area (all of them at least five years old), leaning against the window to watch the street life unfold below.

There were kids running past, their laughter bright and carerefree as they played some complicated game involving a deflated soccer ball and a lot of shrieking. Their bare feet kicked up small clouds of dust that caught the afternoon light like gold powder.

An older woman dragged a wooden cart loaded with vegetables, her weathered hands steady despite the weight. A young man in a torn t-shirt chased after a small brown dog that had apparently stolen something from his pocket, shouting half-hearted threats that were undermined by his obvious affection for the animal.

Normal life. Regular people doing regular things, unaware that their ordinariness was like a knife twisting in her chest.

Then she saw it—a stray cat padding by with purpose, a large fish clamped firmly in its jaws. The fish was nearly as big as the cat’s head and still flapping weakly, but the cat seemed completely unbothered by the challenge.

It was a cow-patterned cat, black and white patches distributed with artistic irregularity, its tail held upright like a banner of pure feline pride.

Despite everything—the fear, the loneliness, the growing certainty that she might never see home again—Elishia found herself smiling.

What a determined little survivor.

The moment of lightness passed quickly, but it left something behind. A tiny spark of… not hope, exactly, but recognition. If a scrawny street cat could catch a fish that big and carry it off like a prize, maybe survival was more about stubbornness than strength.

The thought felt important, though she wasn’t sure why.

Lunch came and went—more questionable eggs and bread that could have been used as building material. Then afternoon settled in, warm and quiet, with dust motes dancing in the slanted sunbeams that squeezed through the grimy windows.

Her mind wandered, but her decision crystallized.

She needed to recover, and fast. Whatever came next, she’d need her strength. And she’d need a plan that didn’t depend on anyone else’s kindness or charity.

I can’t just wait to be rescued. That cat didn’t wait for someone to bring it food.

That night, she went to bed early, her body finally catching up with the exhaustion her mind had been fighting. For the first time since arriving at the clinic, she let herself curl up under the thin blanket without crying, without shaking with delayed shock, just… tired. Bone-deep, soul-deep tired.

As she lay there listening to the distant sounds of the city settling into night—car horns, distant music, the occasional shout—her mind wandered one more time to the question that had been nagging at her for three days.

Where is Mark?

She didn’t want to think about it too hard. He was complicated, dangerous, part of the world that had nearly destroyed her. But he was also the reason she was alive, warm, and safe instead of dead in a warehouse somewhere.

He was one of them, she reminded herself firmly. A trafficker. Part of that whole nightmare.

But even as she thought it, doubt crept in. The way he’d looked at her, the desperate gentleness in his hands as he’d carried her, the way he’d talked to Dr. Chen like he was family…

Maybe it’s not that simple. Maybe nothing about this place is simple.

He didn’t have to save her. He could have left her there to die like—

She cut that thought off before it could finish. She wasn’t ready to think about the others yet. Maybe she never would be.

But he hadn’t left her. He’d risked everything to get her out, and now he was gone again, disappeared into whatever dangerous world he normally inhabited.

Her last coherent thought before sleep claimed her was quiet and reluctant, barely acknowledged even to herself:

I hope he’s okay.

****

Sometime past midnight, she was jerked awake by sound.

Clang.

The sharp ring of metal hitting metal, followed immediately by voices. Loud, sharp, urgent.

She blinked in the darkness, her heart immediately racing as her body prepared for flight before her mind even caught up. For a disorienting second, she thought she was back in her tiny apartment in Trillen, the one with walls so thin she could hear every argument, every slammed door, every late-night drama from the neighbors.

But then reality crashed back.

This isn’t home. This isn’t even Trillen. And those voices sound angry.

She sat up slowly, trying to push through the fog of interrupted sleep and the lingering ache in her shoulder. The voices came again, clearer now. One of them was definitely Dr. Chen, and she’d never heard him sound like this—angry, worried, sharp with what might have been fear.

She couldn’t make out the words, just the tone—frustrated, scolding, the way her mother used to sound when Elishia had done something particularly stupid.

And then, another voice. Unfamiliar but somehow expected.

Rough. Strained. Younger. Male.

“…not… not his fault… you have to listen to me…”

The words were fragmented, broken by what sounded like exhaustion or pain. Maybe both.

Something thudded heavily against a wall—like someone slumping, unable to hold themselves upright anymore.

Then Dr. Chen’s voice again, cutting through whatever explanation was being offered:

“You reckless idiot! Bringing this here—are you trying to get both of us killed? I told you what would happen if you—”

The rest was lost in a crash of something metallic—maybe a medical tray being knocked over, or kicked in frustration. The refrigerator door opened with its familiar rusty screech, followed by the quick shuffle of feet moving toward the examination room.

Elishia sat frozen on the edge of her bed, her heart hammering so loud she was sure it would give her away. Every instinct screamed at her to hide, to pull the blanket over her head and pretend she was still asleep.

Who is that? What kind of trouble has someone brought here? And where the hell is Mark?

The voices had dropped to urgent murmurs now, too low and muffled for her to catch actual words. But the tone was unmistakable—crisis. Emergency. The kind of situation that brought people to back-alley clinics in the middle of the night.

Despite the ache in her body and every rational thought telling her to stay put, she found herself standing carefully and tiptoeing closer to the door. The floorboards were old but solid—they didn’t creak under her bare feet as she pressed her ear to the thin wood.

“…lost too much blood…” Dr. Chen’s voice, professional now, focused.

“…wouldn’t let me… had to get him out…” The stranger again, and there was something desperate in his tone.

“…should have brought him straight here… what were you thinking…”

Him. They were talking about someone else, someone who was hurt badly enough to need emergency medical attention in the middle of the night.

Please don’t let it be Mark, she found herself thinking, the prayer surprising her with its intensity. Please let him be okay.

But even as she hoped, a sick certainty was settling in her stomach. The timing, the desperation in the stranger’s voice, Dr. Chen’s anger mixed with what sounded like genuine worry…

It’s Mark. It has to be Mark.

And he’s hurt.

The voices grew quieter still, shifting to the professional shorthand of people dealing with a medical emergency. She caught fragments—something about a wound reopening, about infection, about time running out—but the words felt disconnected, surreal.

She pressed her back against the door and slid down until she was sitting on the floor, her knees drawn up to her chest. Outside her small room, people were fighting to save someone’s life. Someone who might be the only person in this entire country who cared whether she lived or died.

What kind of world have I fallen into?

The question hung in the dark air around her, unanswered and perhaps unanswerable. All she could do was wait, listen, and hope that whoever was bleeding in Dr. Chen’s examination room would survive the night.

Because the alternative—being truly alone in this dangerous, unfamiliar place—was too terrifying to contemplate.