Page 112 of Strays
Then comes the clinic. Every thread mentions it as always the first stop. We don’t know what the clinic is. A warehouse? A lab? A basement? We only know that the drivers take the women there for something they call “prep to chill.” Since “waiting for sleep hot” shows up in the comms, we’re guessing sedation is part of it.
Other teams report the same structure. Houston, Charleston, LA, different cities but same codes and same steps. It seems to have been engineered like a protocol: every city has a clinic and someone they called “doc” running it.
After that, the trucks roll to drop points where they unload the women and the drugs. That’s where TGH’s role ends; they don’t distribute and don’t follow up. Someone else takes over. It’s a deeper layer of the operation we haven’t touched yet.
A few days later, our first real lead surfaces all the way from Buenos Aires.
The team searching Athena’s logistics hub pulls a hard drive from an office near the port. Most of it is routine: manifests, payroll, maintenance logs. But in a folder labeled Documentos Internos-RH Logística, they find a spreadsheet.
Just five rows. Five ports. Five names.
PUERTO on the left; CONTACTO MÉDICO AUXILIAR on the right.
Next to Nueva Jersey there was a name: Eme Araña.
The moment I see it, I freeze. I know that name. But I don’t know how. It’s not someone I’ve met or someone I’ve seen. It’s deeper. Buried. Familiar in a way that itches under my skin, but I can't remember from where. And I can't stop thinking about it.
On Saturday, we skip basketball with Fontes; we’re too eager to get home and check on Jo. I think we’ve passed seven feet now, and the truck feels more cramped than ever. I dig in the glove box, pull out a pen and paper, and spendthe entire ride obsessing about the name.
Eme Araña. Where the fuck do I know that name from?
I write it over and over.
Eme Araña.
Could it be short for something? Emett? Emery? Could the doc be a woman?
When Jay parks in the garage, the need to check on Jo finally pulls me out of it. I fold the paper and tuck it into my pocket as we head inside.
We go straight to her, three pairs of hands checking, searching for who-knows-what. Only when the weird urge eases do we finally start helping her with dinner.
On Sunday, we finally get to spend a whole day with her. We eat breakfast together and then sit on the couch to watch a show she likes, or try to. I can’t focus. Half my brain is stuck on the need to check on her; the other half is spiraling with that damn name.
She notices. “Where are you?” she asks, voice clipped. This morning, she woke up in a bad mood, grumbling about the nest again.
“Sorry,” I say, but she’s already getting up.
“Forget about the show. I need to go to Bridgeport,” she says, grabbing the truck keys.
Shane and Jay stare.
“Bridgeport?” Jay echoes.
“Yes,” she snaps. “I need to fix that nest. Come on.”
Jo drives. The truck feels even smaller with all four of us inside. She takes us to the same store where we bought the nest when we moved to Milstone.
This time she doesn’t hold back, grabbing double what she got the first time. Pillows stacked so high we can’t see past them. My brothers and I exchange glances while the pile keeps growing.
This is odd. Jo’s always been careful. She never overbuys.
When we leave the store, Jay suggests stopping at Fatimah’s, her favorite restaurant, for lunch, but she refuses. Wants to go homeright now.
As soon as we unload at home, she marches to our bedroom and starts rearranging everything on the nest, layering blankets and building pillow walls like a fortress.
And suddenly, I get it. It hits me hard, and I feel stupid for missing it.
Memories of my mother and Lydia fill my mind: the bad mood, the fixation on the nest.
