Moksha

SAFETY

She was lying in a hospital bed. Supposedly asleep. The sedatives didn't seem to be working on her. But she peeked through her half-open eyelids. A doctor was explaining her "situation" to an immaculately dressed middle-aged couple and a teenaged girl who she supposed was their daughter outside her room. She turned her head towards the ceiling and repeated to herself what she had been told.

Her name was Sally Jensen.

She was 24 years old.

She had been studying political science when she was taken.

She had a little sister.

They had been raised by their well-off parents.

She had been taken from her apartment four months ago.

She was safe now.

It was all rehearsed. She didn't feel like Sally. She didn't know the teary people who were being briefed on her condition. She didn't know anything about New York or political science. She felt alone and stifled at the same time. But these people were her family, she thought, and maybe the doctor was right. All she needed was time to heal. She would remember and begin to fit in like an intricate puzzle. All in good time, she thought.

"Sally?"

She looked into the watery eyes of a girl, no more than 14 years old.

"Hi," she whispered, "you must be Dorothy."

The girl's eyes filled. "You always called me Dot. You know I hated Dorothy."

"Sorry, Dot. It's been a bit of a rough ride for me these past few days."

Dot gave her a weary smile and clutched her hand softly. "Yeah. I know. So, you really don't remember anything?"

She shook her head.

Dot's parents walked into the room. They were her parents too, she reminded herself.

"The doctors say you can come home by tomorrow."

Home. A concept that seemed too theoretical to her still. But she smiled and nodded.

"Home," she repeated.