Page 78 of Imprisoned

Willow stumbles. I catch her before she falls, pulling her against my chest. The scent of her hair drowns out the copper smell of blood still fresh on my hands.

“Almost there,” I whisper, surprised by the gentleness in my voice. “Just hold on a little longer.”

She nods, fingers gripping my shirt. The trust in her touch should make me feel weak. Instead, it feeds something else inside me—something stronger than the bloodlust and more potent than the voices’ demands for violence.

The night wraps around us like a shroud as we push deeper into the woods, leaving Rico’s cooling body and our ruined escape vehicle behind. Somewhere ahead lies the cabin and, beyond that, freedom. But first, we need to survive the night.

35

WILLOW

My feet ache with each step through the dense forest. The moon hangs high above us, casting eerie shadows through the trees. I hadn’t expected the journey to take this long—my work shoes weren’t made for wilderness treks.

“Just a bit further.” Axel’s hand is steady on my lower back. Tommy trails behind us, his labored breathing the only sound besides our footsteps on fallen leaves.

My thighs burn from climbing over fallen logs and navigating steep inclines. The forest seems endless, each tree identical to the last. I stumble on a root, but Axel catches me before I fall.

“There.” Axel points to a dark shape ahead. As we draw closer, I make out the silhouette of a cabin, its windows dark and empty. The wooden structure leans slightly to one side, moss creeping up its weathered walls.

Axel takes point, circling the perimeter while Tommy and I wait in the shadows. The door hangs loose on its hinges. Inside, dust covers every surface. A moth-eaten couch sits beneath a cracked window, and a rustic fireplace dominates one wall.

“It’s clear,” Axel says, ushering us inside. “Tommy, check the back room.”

I sink onto the couch, ignoring the musty smell. A bone-deep weariness settles in as the adrenaline recedes. Axel kneels before me, examining my feet where blisters have formed.

“You should have told me you were struggling,” he says, his touch gentle as he removes my shoes.

“We couldn’t stop.” I wince as he peels off my socks. “Not with them behind us.”

Tommy returns from his sweep. “Place is secure. Found some old blankets in a chest.”

I push myself off the couch despite my aching feet. “Let me look at your arm, Tommy.”

Axel steps between us. “He’s fine. You need to rest.”

“I’m a doctor, Axel. Even if it’s not my specialty, I had basic medical training.” I meet his gaze, refusing to back down. “Tommy helped us escape. We owe him.”

Tommy slumps against the wall, his face pale with pain. Axel’s jaw tightens, but he moves aside.

“Thank you,” I say, approaching Tommy. “Can you show me where it hurts?”

Tommy gestures to his right arm, which hangs at an awkward angle.

I carefully examine the shoulder, noting the deformity and how he guards it. “It’s dislocated. I can reset it, but it’s going to hurt.”

Tommy’s eyes widen. “You can do that?”

“I had emergency medical training in school,” I explain, assessing the joint. “Axel, I need your help.”

Axel moves behind Tommy without question. “What do you need me to do?”

“Hold him steady. This is going to be painful.” I position myself in front of Tommy. “I need you to relax as much as possible,” I tell him. “The more tense you are, the harder this will be.”

Tommy nods nervously, sweat beading on his forehead.

“Axel, keep him from moving.” I meet Tommy’s eyes. “Take a deep breath. On three.”

I count but move on two—a trick I learned to catch patients off guard. With practiced movements, I rotate the arm outward and guide the humeral head back into the socket with a sickening pop.

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