When Alina awoke, she was lying on a hospital cot, wrapped in a clean blanket. Her feet were bandaged. Her skin smelled faintly of antiseptic. Gertrude sat beside her. The nurse offered her water. Alina drank cautiously, as if afraid the cup might vanish.
“We need to know where you came from,” Gertrude said gently. “So we can help your family.”
Alina hesitated. She rubbed her hands together, her eyes drifting to the tiled floor. “I live in a blue house,” she murmured. “Up on the hill. Past a broken bridge.”
The description was vague, but the region was small. The authorities soon identified a likely location. Two patrol cars and an ambulance followed a narrow dirt trail that wound through the outskirts of the rural community of Ridgeford Vale. The road was flanked by untrimmed grass and rust colored soil. As the sun began to dip, casting stretched shadows over the land, they found the house.
It was hardly a structure. The walls were warped planks. The roof slanted as if one strong wind would collapse it. There was no proper door. The stench emanating from within hit the officers instantly. It was sickly sweet. It spoke of neglect, illness, and time allowed to run unchecked.
Officer Mateo Morales pushed aside the hanging cloth that served as an entrance. The interior was dim, illuminated only by reluctant rays leaking through broken boards. Flies gathered in swarms. The buzzing filled the silence chillingly.
In the center of the single room lay a woman. Her body rested on a flattened mattress mottled with stains. Her eyes were half open, unfocused. Her breath was faint. Beside her sat two empty bottles and a tattered blanket marked with dried blood. For a tense moment, Morales feared the worst. Then one of the paramedics leaned in.
“She is alive,” the paramedic whispered. “But barely.”
They moved swiftly to lift her. While the stretcher was prepared, Morales examined the cluttered space. There was no clean water. No stocked food. No medicine. Only a small cracked table holding a thin notebook.