Page 17 of Corpse Roads

I have a feeling that Enzo has something to do with her disappearance. The last thing I remember is the incandescent rage on his face as they pinned me down and slipped a needle in my arm.

“All looking good,” Doctor David concludes.

He looks a few years younger than Pastor Michaels. I think I like him, but my trust is nonexistent. Monsters can wear many masks, and the kindest smiles often hide the sickest of souls.

“We need to discuss your recovery,” he says, placing the clipboard down. “You’re lucky to be alive with these injuries.”

“Lucky,” I repeat, the word alien on my tongue.

“The sepsis infection has been brought under control. You have two broken ribs, which will take time to heal. Keep them strapped with compression wraps, and I’d recommend lots of hot baths. You’ll be given pain medication to take home.”

“Home?”

“I understand arrangements are being made for you as we speak.”

Worry settles over me. Pastor Michaels will be out there right now, burning the world to ash as he searches for me. There’s a reason I was kept alive for all this time while others were murdered.

I’m his daughter. The beginning and end of the sick ritual that he’s perfected over time, fine-tuning the art of brutalisation with each fresh kill. My body bears the same marks that killed each girl he stole.

“We performed surgery to set your broken arm,” Doctor David continues, startling me back to the room. “You’ll be in the cast for several weeks while it heals. Physiotherapy may be required.”

Nodding, I pick at the sore flaps of skin around my missing nail. The sharp bite of pain grants me some clarity. Enzo said I was safe. Pastor Michaels can’t get to me here, surely?

“Harlow?”

I startle as he rests a hand on my shoulder, quickly removing it when he spots the look on my face.

“We need to talk about your diet now that you’re off the feeding tube. I understand the idea of eating may seem impossible, given all that’s happened. Extended periods of malnourishment do that.”

“I… f-feel sick just thinking about food,” I concede, my voice strained. “They didn’t feed me often… where I was held.”

His gaze softens with sympathy. I hate the way that look makes me feel, my skin crawling with self-hatred. I don’t want to be the broken person my parents made me.

“You need to stick to a strict, high-calorie diet to gain some weight. I’m concerned about your immune system. The infection nearly killed you, and in your current state, a common cold could wipe you out.”

“Put some weight on.” I clear the lump in my throat. “Got it. I’ll try my best, Doctor David.”

“Our nutritionist will write up a meal plan for you to take away. Lots of protein shakes for meal replacement, some light foods to try. You will need to take it slow, avoid anything rich or heavy.”

A dull ache starts behind my eyes. Between the bright sunlight pulsing through the window and the doctor’s information dump, I’m feeling overwhelmed. It’s all so much.

“Do you have any questions for me, Harlow? I’m sure this all sounds like a lot. You’ll return to me for regular checkups to keep your recovery on track in the coming months.”

“How old am I?” I blurt out.

“You don’t know?”

I avoid the concerned look on his face. Admitting it out loud makes me feel sick with vulnerability. My life before the confines of this clinical room feels so far away now. Like an endless nightmare from which I’ve finally awoken.

Part of me doesn’t believe it. Everything I’ve grown up believing is being systematically dismantled with each passing second. The world isn’t a fiery wasteland of sinners and angels, battling to reach the welcoming relief of God’s light.

Running a hand over his face, Doctor David takes the empty seat at my bedside. “We’re having difficulty tracking down your medical records. You’re a ghost, Harlow. All I have are best guesses.”

“Why can’t you find them?”

“Your case is being treated as classified. There are some powerful people outside, arguing about what to do with you. We’ve tried to identify you based on our records… but there’s nothing.”

“You’re saying… I’m n-not real?”

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