I woke up, being dragged onto a stretcher, and a man shining a light in each of my eyes. 

“Concussion,” he announced to the others working with him.

There was a lot of discussion around me, about me, but I couldn’t piece it together well. Decisions were made. I was pushed into the back of an ambulance and they drove off from the woods.

My first real thought was, the director needs to know where I am. It was immediately followed by where the hell is my phone.

“Can you hear me?” the man standing over the stretcher asked.

I didn’t respond, unsure of the situation.

“I’m going to remove your clothes to check for injuries, okay?” he stated. “Let me know if anything hurts.”

He then proceeded to take scissors to my jacket and the t-shirt underneath, peeling them away.

I began to squirm and try to push his hand away but it was already too late.

His face said enough as he then turned away and said something into his radio I couldn’t hear clearly. 

My pale skin was exposed and the lances of scars gleamed white. There were many of them. Most were small; scrapes and scratches gently pink and shinier than the surrounding skin, but others were more pronounced: white and sunken-in and stretching long inches across my torso.

The EMT turned back to me and began wrapping me in some kind of blanket and strapping me onto the stretcher. His curiosity was sated, it seemed. 

Soon after, they pushed me back out and into a busy building with too many people. They were everywhere and they all looked miserable.

I didn’t like this but the restraints kept me from moving. They wheeled me into a small room and a nurse immediately came over and helped them lift me from the stretcher to the bed, then freed me from the wraps.

I waited until it was just her and I slowly started to slip off the bed. She saw me out of the corner of her eye and rushed over.

“You can’t get up, hun,” she said and pushed me back firmly in place. “We need to assess you, so just stay right here and the doctor will be in shortly.”

She went back to pulling a hospital gown onto me. She, too, hesitated on seeing the state of my skin, but said nothing. Instead, she made herself busy connecting me to monitors and electrodes and taking my blood pressure, making note of everything.

“Where does it hurt?” she asked me once she was finished.

I glued my tongue to the roof of my mouth and refused to answer.

“Is there pain?” she asked. Her tone was very abrupt but not openly hostile. Just all business and no emotion.

At my continued silence she sighed.

“A social worker will be in shortly,” she explained. “I know you’re scared but you need to let us help heal you. You can’t do it on your own, as much as you may want to.”

I still had nothing to say and she left with a huff. Not long after, more people came in.

I could identify the doctor and a security officer, but the third wasn't wearing any kind of uniform. The room felt crowded as they stepped close to the bed and pulled the curtain shut behind them.

I swallowed back panic and froze, watching for any sign of hostility.

The woman who was neither a doctor nor a security officer held a hand out to me.

“Hello,” she said with a friendly pitch to her voice. “My name is Trisha, can I ask for yours?”

I bit my tongue. My name was not for these people. The director and the other contractors knew me as Athena. Nobody else knew of me and they weren't supposed to.

“Can you speak?” the woman asked. She waited through my silence before continuing. “okay,” she said. “Well, I'm a social worker and it's my understanding you came on with significant signs of an abusive living situation so I want to let you know I'm gonna take a quick look at where those injuries were.”

She proceeded to pull the gown away from my skin and began taking notes on a tablet. I didn't ask questions as she held my arms out and examined the nicks and scrapes there. I had a few fresh bruises forming from the struggle earlier that night and hoped that she wouldn’t notice those. The more my timeline was intertwined with the targets, the harder it would be to slip away unnoticed.

With a final nod she finished her notes.

“So, because you’re a minor we need to make contact with your legal guardians, and because you have all of these old injuries, the CPS is going to ask you some questions, okay?”

I kept my stoic expression.

“Alright,” she gave up on my answering. “We're gonna take a cheek swab just as a part of protocol.”

The officer behind her now approached with the little plastic package and opened it.

The machine behind me began alarming as he pulled the swab free of its sterile packaging.

“It's gonna be okay,” Trisha reassured me, but my heart continued frantically beating.

I could not let them take a DNA sample. That was practically rule one.

 With quite a bit more effort than usual, I launched myself off the bed and started for the door just to feel the officer’s arm brace against my middle. I ducked, slid under it and bolted out the door.

“Stop her!” I heard the security officer yell after me. Before I knew it, a burly man tried to tackle me. I feinted into a dodge and he skidded to try to make up for it, but ended up stumbling into a nurse hurrying with a cart instead. 

I went the other way, quickly realizing this place was a maze and all of these eyes were on me.

There were stretchers everywhere and people holding bloody gauze to injuries, somebody was screaming in the background. 

I picked a direction and ran, weaving between people. A nurse attempted to grab me in passing but I slid under his grasp with practiced ease, my bare skin skidding on the tile floor.

Before I could recover another nurse grabbed me by the arm. I twisted, shoving her to the side and turned to continue on when the burly guard from earlier appeared in front of me. He grabbed my arm and picked me right up. I flailed and kicked, but before I knew it, more hands were holding me and there was a sharp pinch in my neck.

I was out in seconds.