And then she spoke.
And her voice—steady, calm, without the slightest crack—cut into my agony like a knife through butter.
I need light, clean water, alcohol, and thread. Now. Otherwise, in twenty minutes he will die.
No “please.” No “may I.” No “help me.”
An order.
This woman—beaten, kidnapped, in a stranger’s house, among armed men—was giving instructions. And they sounded like this, that my people—my people, who listened only to me—had already started to move, ready to carry them out.