Page 1 of Rescue

Chapter 1

The Incident

Jon

The office is abroom cupboard with aspirations. A desk crammed in one corner, shelves that threaten to topple under the weight of disorganised files, and a single, flickering overhead light. It’s barely big enough to stretch my legs under the desk, but I’ve spent enough time in it over the past few weeks that it almost feels like mine. Almost.

The sounds of the office drift in through the door—a phone ringing somewhere, muffled voices speaking in Russian or Tajik. Outside, the ever-present hum of Khorog’s dusty streets filters in through the cracked window. A rickety fan wobbles on the shelf above me, doing its best to stir the stale air, but failing miserably.

I lean back in the creaky chair, staring at the wall. Two more weeks. That’s all that’s left of my secondment here with GHHI, and then it’s back to London. Back to what? My job at the hospital, of course, but what else?

I run my hand through my hair, the questions nagging at the edges of my mind. It’s not like there’s anyone waiting for me at home. My ex-wife moved on years ago, and theflat I go back to feels more like a stopover than a home. My parents and siblings are up north, always happy to see me when I visit, but their lives are full, busy. There’s no space for me to slot into their world, not without feeling like a guest.

Work has been my anchor for so long that I’m not even sure how to let go of it. It’s predictable, steady. I’m good at it. But lately, even that feels hollow. I used to think that volunteering for projects like this, stepping out of my comfort zone, would reignite something—a sense of purpose, maybe. And it has, to an extent. The work we’ve been doing here is important. I know that. But once it’s over, I’ll go back to the same routine, the same lonely cycle.

I glance at the photo pinned to the bulletin board above the desk. It’s of the GHHI team during an outreach visit to a nearby village. Everyone is smiling, holding up peace signs or waving at the camera. I’m in the back, half-hidden behind Mel, looking more serious than the others. I remember that day. The long drive, the dust, the heat—and then the gratitude in the villagers’ eyes when we arrived. It was one of the good days.

My phone buzzes on the desk, snapping me out of my thoughts. A message from the logistics manager, asking me to review some supplies before our next trip. I rub my eyes, already feeling the weight of the day ahead.

Two more weeks. I keep repeating it to myself, like a mantra. Two more weeks, and then I’ll be back to the life I’ve been avoiding thinking about. But what kind of life is it?

I step out of the cramped office, stretching my arms as much as the narrow corridor allows. The smell of hottea and fried dough wafts through the air from the break room.

Just ahead, the door to Fatima’s office is ajar. She’s perched at her desk, one hand holding her phone to her ear while the other scribbles furiously on a notepad. Her sharp eyes flick up as I pass, and she gestures for me to wait.

“Jon,” she says, holding up a finger to pause me as she speaks into the phone. Her voice is calm but firm, her words in Tajik too quick for me to follow. I find it easy to pick up languages and I have learned a few bits of Tajik from the local staff over the last few weeks. After a moment, she places her hand over the receiver and looks up at me.

“It’s a nurse from Pastkhuf,” she explains, her tone clipped. “A little girl fell. She’s injured—unconscious, I think. They’re asking for guidance.”

Immediately, my chest tightens. “Unconscious?” I step into the room, my earlier thoughts of mundane logistics forgotten.

Fatima nods, holding out the phone. “You need to speak to her directly. Find out what’s happening, what they need.”

I take the phone from Fatima, offering her a quick nod before bringing it to my ear. “Hello, this is Dr Jon Peterson. I understand you’re with an injured child?”

The voice on the other end is calm but tinged with urgency. “Yes, doctor. I am Laila, nurse in Pastkhuf. The girl fell—two floors, from… roof. She is... not waking.”

My grip on the phone tightens. Two floors. That’s significant. “Thank you, Laila. How old is she?”

“Five or six years old,” she replies, her English halting but clear enough to convey the gravity of the situation.

“And she’s been unconscious since the fall?”

“Yes. Since this morning. About... four hours now.”

Four hours. A chill runs down my spine, though I keep my voice steady. “Alright. Can you tell me about her breathing? Is it steady, or does it seem slow or laboured?”

“She is breathing, but slow,” Laila stresses.

“Okay,” I say, already piecing together a picture in my mind. “What about her pulse?”

“It is fast. But regular.”

That’s a concerning combination—slow breathing and a fast pulse could indicate raised intracranial pressure or shock. I glance at Fatima, who’s still watching me closely, pen poised above her notepad.

“Does she have any visible injuries, Laila? Especially to her head or neck?”

“Yes. Back of her head has a small cut. We have cleaned it. There is no heavy bleeding.”

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