On paper, it runs shelters, soup kitchens, free clinics, crisis housing, and outreach programs for the desperate and forgotten.
Off paper, it funds illegal safehouses, launders runaway pets through false identities, burns ownership records, blackmails abusers, bribes officials, steals medical samples, and breaks every law written to keep people property.
At the center of it all is Leigh Kestrel-Wickham: former Shield, co-CEO, survivor, and the woman polite society keeps mistaking for a charitable wife with excellent manners.
The Foundation calls it aid.
The courts call it trafficking interference, theft, fraud, conspiracy, and obstruction.
Kestrel calls it Tuesday.
These are the stories from a criminal enterprise.
CW: BBU/BBU-ADJACENT SETTING, LAWFUL SYSTEMIC ABUSE, CONDITIONING/DECONDITIONING, RESCUE, MEDICAL ABUSE TW, PAST WHUMP, NEURODIVERGENT WHUMPEES, CHRONICALLY ILL WHUMPEE, CHRONIC ILLNESS, EPISTOLARY WHUMP, RICH WHUMPERS, ABANDONMENT, REFERENCED MINOR WHUMP, COERCION, BLACKMAIL, LADY WHUMP, LIVING WEAPON WHUMPEE, DEHUMANIZATION, RECOVERY WHUMP
Wick looked at Kestrel.
Kestrel lifted one shoulder. “Words are flexible when rich people use them.”
“That’s horrifying.”
“It’s useful.”
“Also horrifying.”
“Yes.”
Bartlett House Grant -
Publicly, the Bartlett House Grant funded domestic violence transitional housing.
Finch 1 -
There were things the body learned to recognize. A held breath. A spine arranged too carefully. Hands folded in the exact shape of fear. The small delay before obedience, not because the pet had disobeyed, but because pain made movement expensive.
Finch 2 -
Finch knew better than to look at Mrs. Wickham.
Finch 3 -
Mr. Harrow had sent them to fix their pearls after one strand twisted beneath the collar. Finch had stood by the sinks, fingers clumsy, pulse beating too hard.
Finch 4 -
Rho closed it behind them just as the service elevator chimed. The latch clicked.
Finch stopped breathing.
Elise -
“Do you swear or affirm that the testimony you are about to give is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”
Gray 1 -
At first, no one noticed him as an emergency and that was the point.
Gray 2 -
“He died,” he whispered. “My owner died, and everyone cried, and I didn’t know what to do because he told me I’d go with him, but then there was a funeral and then paperwork and then they put me in the car.”
Gray 3 -
“Daniel Whitcomb’s children pinned a note to their dead father’s Romantic and left him in a clinic waiting room.”
Jonah 1 -
There was a mother crying on television.
Jonah 2 -
Jonah sat between the bed and the wall with his knees drawn up, both hands clamped over the back of his neck.
Tess 1 -
Dami had been carrying a box of donated coats when the survivor saw them.
Tess 2 -
“She remembered me,” Dami said.
Sabine -
“I need to contact June.”
Nadia 1
Nadia 2
Nadia 3
Nadia 4
Nadia 5
Bishop 1
Bishop 2
Ellis 1 -
Ellis 2 -
Ellis 3 -
Ellis 4 -
Ellis 5 -
The Midas Porter Arc
Micah 1
Micah 2
Micah 3
Micah 4
Dami - 1
Dami - 2
THE ASR-417 ARC (ALETHEPRINE)
OTHER FUN THINGS
WRU DOSSIERS
Surveillance and information gathered on the members of The Wickham Foundation.
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They found Jonah sitting on the floor beneath the window.
Charity had lowered the blinds, but light still bled through the edges in thin white strips. Jonah sat between the bed and the wall with his knees drawn up, both hands clamped over the back of his neck.
He was whispering something.
Kestrel heard it as she approached.
“Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.”
Charity looked up from where she sat several feet away. She didn’t move closer to him.
“He saw his profile,” she said. “One of the volunteers had the segment playing at the front desk.”
“Which volunteer?”
“I already handled it.”
Kestrel nodded.
Jonah looked up. His face had emptied itself.
“They said I’m sick.”
“No,” Kestrel said.
“They said I can’t decide.”
“I heard them.”
“My papers say it.”
Kestrel lowered herself carefully to the floor. Her knees protested, but she didn’t let it change her face. She stayed outside his reach.Dami remained by the door, broad body blocking the hall without blocking Jonah’s exit. Their hands were visible. Their posture stayed loose.
Jonah looked at them.
“They’ll send Retrievers.”
“They might,” Dami said.
Charity glanced toward them. Dami didn’t soften the answer. Kestrel didn’t ask them to.
Jonah’s breathing hitched.
“They’ll take me back.”
“Not from this room,” Kestrel said.
“You don’t know that.”
“No.”
He stared at her.
Kestrel rested her hands on her own knees.
“I know nobody in this room is going to tell you that you belong to someone else.”
His mouth twisted.
“They said I was happy.”
Kestrel thought of the photograph beside the Christmas tree. Hands folded. Eyes on the camera. A smile held in place by something nobody watching breakfast television had been taught to recognize.
“Were you?”
Jonah looked down. It took him a long time to answer.
“Sometimes.”
Charity’s face tightened.
Kestrel only nodded.
“That doesn’t mean you have to go back.”
“They bought me a dog.”
“You can miss the dog.”
“I had my own room.”
“You can miss the room.”
“She used to make soup when I got sick.”
“You can remember that.”
Jonah’s hands slipped from the back of his neck. His fingers were trembling.
“What if they weren’t bad all the time?”
Kestrel leaned forward slightly.
“They didn’t have to be.”
He looked at her then. Really looked. She held his gaze.
“You’re allowed to leave a place that hurt you,” she said. “Even if it also fed you. Even if someone there loved you. Even if you loved them.”
Jonah’s face folded.
Charity moved only when he reached for her. She crossed the space slowly and let him collapse against her shoulder.
Dami looked away to give him privacy. Kestrel stayed on the floor. Her knees hurt badly now.
Dami’s hand appeared in front of her and she took it. They lifted her carefully, one arm circling her waist when her right knee failed to cooperate. Kestrel allowed herself to rest against them for a moment, cheek against the center of their chest.
“You’re overheating,” Dami murmured.
“I’m angry.”
“Also raises body temperature.”
“Thank you, doctor.”
“Not a doctor.”
“You’ve mentioned.”
Their hand moved once over her back.
In the hallway, Lucky was waiting.
“So far,” he said quietly, “twelve people have asked to leave our housing programs.”
Kestrel pulled away from Dami just enough to look at him.
“Because they want to go back?”
“Because they’re afraid staying will get everyone arrested.”
Dami’s expression sharpened.
“That’s the campaign.”
Lucky nodded.
“They’re not trying to persuade the public first. They’re trying to frighten runaways into returning voluntarily.”
“Then the public campaign gives WRU cover,” Kestrel said. “Every person who goes back becomes proof that the activists manipulated them.”
“Closed structure,” Dami murmured. “Outcome confirms the accusation.”
Wick was waiting when they returned upstairs. Counsel had arrived. So had the Foundation’s communications director, two board members, and a woman from security who looked as though she’d like to personally dismantle the nearest news van.
The television was back on.This time, there were six owners arranged in a studio audience.
A man was talking about his wife.
“They told her she didn’t need me,” he said. “They made her afraid of me. Now these people won’t even tell me whether she’s alive.”
The host looked horrified.
The chyron beneath him read:
HUSBAND PLEADS FOR RETURN OF DISABLED WIFE
Kestrel stopped in the doorway.
The man’s wife had arrived at one of their partner clinics with a fractured jaw. No one in the room said it. They didn’t have to.
The communications director turned.
“We need a statement within the hour.”
“We don’t respond to individual cases,” counsel said.
“Then they’ll say we’re hiding behind confidentiality.”
“We are hiding behind confidentiality,” Kestrel said.
Everyone looked at her.
She moved to Wick’s side. He caught her hand and pressed it between both of his.
Dami took the chair on Kestrel’s other side, their knee against hers beneath the table.
The board member nearest the window cleared his throat.
“There may be value in acknowledging that some families are genuinely distressed.”
“Owners,” Lucky said.
The man frowned.
“Excuse me?”
“Some owners are distressed.”
“We cannot use that word publicly.”
Lucky leaned back in his chair.
“I wasn’t suggesting we use it publicly.”
The communications director opened her laptop.
“We need to decide on language. Compassionate. Non-confrontational. Something that doesn’t make us look defensive.”
“They’ve accused us of kidnapping people,” Charity said.
“Yes, which is why sounding defensive will hurt us.”
Wick stared at the television.
The man onscreen had begun to cry.
Wick’s thumb moved over Kestrel’s knuckles, back and forth.
“They’ve rehearsed them,” he said.
Dami nodded.
“Some more than others.”
“How can you tell?” one of the board members asked.
“Pauses,” Dami said. “Told to wait before saying someone’s name. Makes it seem difficult. Emotionally.”
The room went quiet.
Onscreen, the man waited precisely two seconds before whispering his wife’s name.
The security woman swore under her breath.
Wick’s stutter sharpened when he spoke again.
“They’re using f-f-family because nobody wants to be seen standing against families.”
Kestrel watched another photograph appear.
A smiling woman at a picnic table. A hand rested on the back of her neck.
Possessiveness presented as tenderness.
“What do you want to say?” the communications director asked.
Kestrel didn’t answer immediately. She thought of Jonah apologizing. She thought of the twelve people packing because they believed their existence had become dangerous to everyone around them. She thought of owners learning to cry on cue. She thought of Malcolm telling Wick that punishment was care. She thought about Charlotte calling obedience devotion.
Eventually every system learned to use prettier words.
She leaned forward.
“Write this down.” The communications director placed her hands on the keyboard. Kestrel spoke slowly. “The Wickham Foundation supports the right of every adult to make decisions about their own residence, relationships, medical care, and personal safety.”
The keyboard clicked.
“We do not facilitate forced contact between adults and estranged family members.”
Counsel lifted one finger.
“Good.”
“We do not confirm or deny whether any individual has received services through our programs.”
“That’ll become the headline,” the communications director warned.
“Let it.”
She continued. “Privacy is not evidence of coercion. Leaving is not proof of incapacity. Distress does not create entitlement to another person’s location.”
The typing slowed.
One of the board members shifted.
“That last sentence is aggressive.”
“Yes,” Kestrel said.
Wick’s mouth smiled despite himself. Dami’s knee pressed more firmly against hers.
Counsel looked down at his notes.
“We should include something about lawful guardianship orders.”
“No,” Kestrel said.
“We can’t appear to be advising people to violate court orders.”
“We’re not.”
“Then perhaps: the Foundation complies with all applicable—”
“No.”
The lawyer looked up.
Kestrel’s voice remained calm.
Frighteningly calm.
“We don’t advertise our compliance for WRU to clip into a commercial.”
The room fell silent.
Wick brought her hand to his mouth and kissed her knuckles.
“Add one more line,” he said.
The communications director waited.
Wick looked at the television, where another owner was begging a missing pet to come home.
His face was pale. His voice wasn’t steady.
It was still clear.
“Love doesn’t require surveillance,” he said. “And it doesn’t need a recovery team.”
No one spoke for a moment.
Then the communications director typed it.
By noon, the Foundation’s statement was everywhere.
By twelve fifteen, WRU called it heartless.
By twelve twenty, three cable hosts were asking what the Foundation had to hide.
By one, donors had begun sending concerned emails.
At two, a brick came through the front window of the Queens community center.
At three, someone painted KIDNAPPERS across the loading entrance at Falwell Memorial.
At four, the campaign released a second video.
Children this time.
Young adults and teenagers seated in softly lit rooms, asking their missing mothers, fathers, siblings, and caregivers to come back.
Kestrel watched thirty seconds before turning it off.
The office had emptied around them. Wick was exhausted, his head resting against the back of his chair. Dami sat on the carpet beside him, long legs stretched beneath the table.
Kestrel stood at the window. There were cameras across the street. A reporter was speaking into a microphone beneath the awning of the building opposite theirs.
Dami came up behind her.They rested their chin lightly against the top of her head. Wick reached out from his chair until his fingers found the back of her hand. Kestrel turned her palm and linked their fingers.
“They’re going to make this worse,” Wick said.
“Yes.”
“They’re going to find people who go back.”
“Yes.”
“They’ll put them on television.”
Dami’s arms settled around Kestrel’s waist.
“Successful reunification,” they said.
Kestrel watched the cameras.
A chant had started on the pavement below.
Bring them home.
Bring them home.
Bring them home.
The words rose through the glass.
Wick’s hand tightened around hers. Kestrel leaned back into Dami’s chest.
“We don’t answer the campaign,” she said.
Wick looked up at her.
“What do we do?”
Kestrel watched a reporter turn toward the Foundation’s front doors, waiting for someone frightened enough to come outside and give them a better story.
“We make sure nobody has to face it alone.”
Below them, the crowd kept chanting.
Inside the Foundation, locks were checked.
Curtains were drawn.
Phones were distributed to anyone who didn’t have one.
Counsel began filing emergency motions under names WRU hadn’t found yet.
Clinic staff moved medication away from public-facing locations.
Lucky changed every transport route.
Charity sat with the people who’d begun packing and told them they didn’t owe the Foundation bravery.
Nobody used the word rescue.
Nobody claimed to be hiding anyone.
And when evening came, not one person was returned.
Owners disliked interest. Owners disliked curiosity. Owners disliked when pets noticed other people too much, because noticing became wanting, and wanting became disobedience if it wasn’t corrected early.
So Finch kept their eyes lowered and their hands folded neatly in their lap on the drive back to the hotel, knees pressed together, shoulders back, spine straight despite the blooming pain beneath their ribs.
Mr. Harrow was in an excellent mood.
That was worse than a bad mood in some ways. Bad moods were direct. Bad moods had patterns. They gathered in the jaw, the fingers, the silence. Finch could prepare for a bad mood.
Excellent moods made him generous. Generous meant demonstrations. Demonstrations meant hands on their body, in their hair, in all the crevices Finch hated. Or the ones they would hate if they were allowed that.
“You did well tonight,” Mr. Harrow said, swirling the last of the champagne in the glass he’d taken from the gala.
Finch’s stomach turned over. They still plastered on a small smile. “Thank you, sir.”
“You smiled when instructed.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You didn’t stare.”
“No, sir.”
“You did have a moment with Mrs. Wickham, though.”
Finch’s hands did not move but their heart did. One hard slam behind their sternum.
“No, sir.”
Mr. Harrow laughed softly. “Don’t lie to me, Finch.”
Finch swallowed. “I’m sorry, sir.”
“For what?”
They didn’t know. That was the trap. Mr. Harrow loved that trap.
“For giving the wrong answer, sir.”
“Better.”
The city lights slid across the window. Gold and white streaked over the glass, bright and distant and useless.
Mr. Harrow leaned back in the seat. “She noticed you.”
Finch said nothing.
“She has that look, doesn’t she? Like she thinks herself very righteous. Very controlled.” His mouth curled. “I’ve always found people like that are the easiest to compromise. All that restraint. All that dignity. You only have to find where the pressure belongs.”
Finch kept breathing.
In. Out.
Quiet.
Mr. Harrow reached over and dragged two fingers along the collar beneath their pearls.
Finch went still.
“Perhaps I should give her a lesson in discipline,” he murmured. “Since she seems so fond of charity.”
The car stopped.
Finch’s body knew the order before Mr. Harrow spoke.
They opened the door, stepped out first, checked the curb, then moved aside for him. The hotel entrance gleamed with brass and glass. Two private guards waited near the doors. Mr. Harrow’s assistant stood at the concierge desk with a phone pressed to one ear.
Everything looked normal.
That was the problem.
Cruelty looked very normal from the outside.
Finch followed Mr. Harrow through the lobby, half a step behind, eyes lowered. People smiled at him. Not at Finch. Never at Finch. They were furniture with a pulse, an accessory that breathed, a decorative answer to a question no decent person asked out loud.
The elevator was waiting.
Mr. Harrow stepped inside first.
Finch followed.
One of the guards joined them. The other remained below with the assistant.
The doors closed.
No one stopped them.
No one called Finch’s name.
No dramatic hand slid between the elevator doors. No righteous interruption came from the lobby. No one looked up from the concierge desk as the numbers climbed.
Nothing would happen. Rescue was a fantasy pets whispered before being returned in worse condition. Rescue was a word people used when they wanted to make punishment feel like proof. Rescue was never quiet.
The elevator opened on the penthouse floor.
Mr. Harrow swept out.
Finch followed him into the suite, then stopped beside the door and lowered their eyes.
The rooms had already been prepared. Fresh flowers. Ice bucket. Whiskey. Late supper under silver domes. A hotel manager stood near the dining table with a nervous smile.
A young server waited behind him, white jacket crisp, gloved hands folded.
Finch didn’t look at him. Looking was unsafe.
“Mr. Harrow,” the manager said, “welcome back. I hope the gala was enjoyable.”
“It was profitable,” Mr. Harrow replied. “Which is better.”
The manager laughed too quickly.
Mr. Harrow moved to the table and lifted one of the silver domes. His expression soured.
“I specifically said no olives.”
The room chilled.
The manager’s smile broke around the edges. “I’m very sorry, sir. We can have that remade immediately.”
Mr. Harrow looked at Finch.
Finch’s throat tightened.
“Fix it,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Not with the front desk. The kitchen. Personally. And if they try to send me another plate with olives, you’ll explain to them exactly how much I dislike repeating myself.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Harrow smiled.
There it was.
Generosity.
He was giving them a task. A chance to fail privately. A chance to return with fear already started under their skin.
Finch took the tray when the young server lifted it.
The server didn't look at their bruises.
He didn't look at their collar.
He simply said, “This way.”
Finch followed him out.
The door closed behind them.
The hallway was empty.
Quiet.
Too quiet.
The server led Finch to the service elevator at the end of the corridor. He pressed the button with his knuckle. Finch held the tray carefully, elbows tucked in, shoulders level, because dropping it would be worse than anything.
The service elevator opened.
Inside stood a housekeeping cart, a stack of folded towels, and a woman in a gray uniform arranging washcloths with both hands.
Finch stepped in.
The server stepped in after them.
The doors closed.
The elevator began to descend.
Three floors.
Four.
Then it stopped.
Not at the kitchen.
Finch’s heart lurched.
The doors opened onto a service corridor with bare walls and buzzing fluorescent lights.
The woman with the towels moved first, pushing the housekeeping cart out as if this was ordinary.
The server held the elevator door with one hand.
“Finch,” he said.
Their name in his mouth was quiet.
Not a command.
Not Mr. Harrow’s voice.
Finch’s grip tightened on the tray.
The server removed his cap.
He was older than Finch had thought. Tall. Broad. Brown skin. Calm face. Guard Dog stillness under hotel whites.
Lucky Johnson.
Finch knew the shape of him instantly, because their body had been trained to recognize threat even when it entered politely.
This didn’t feel like a threat. It felt like a door that had opened where there had never been a door before.
Lucky said, “You don’t have to come with us.”
Finch stared at the floor. The tray trembled in their hands.
The woman in the housekeeping uniform turned slightly. She didn't block the hall. She kept one hand on the cart and the other visible at her side.
“The kitchen's one floor down,” she said. “This room is here. Door stays open unless you ask to close it. Five minutes. Water. A chair. A doctor, if you want one.”
Finch couldn’t breathe.
This wasn't rescue.
It couldn’t be.
Rescue would have announced itself. Rescue would have grabbed them. Rescue would have made itself big and bright and punishing.
This was a hallway. A service elevator. A tray cooling in their hands. A choice so small Finch could barely recognize it.
Lucky watched them without moving closer.
“Mrs. Wickham said you might ask for water,” he said.
Dami had been carrying a box of donated coats when the survivor saw them.
Nothing dramatic happened at first.
The box didn’t fall.
No one screamed.
The survivor simply stopped breathing.
They stood just inside the community room with Charity beside them, one hand still curled around the strap of a canvas bag. They’d arrived twenty minutes ago under a name nobody had verified and nobody intended to. Their hair was badly cut, as if they’d taken scissors to it in a bathroom mirror. Their coat was too large. Their eyes had tracked every door since they came inside.
Then they landed on Dami.
Six foot three. Broad shoulders. Dark clothing. The same controlled walk they’d had in the facility, every footstep placed deliberately, their body quiet enough to disappear despite its size.
Dami stopped.
The box remained braced against their chest.
The survivor’s face emptied.
“No,” they whispered.
Charity looked between them. “Tess?”
Dami’s grip tightened on the cardboard.
The survivor backed into the wall.
“No. No, you said this place was safe.”
“It is,” Charity said carefully.
“You said they couldn’t come here.”
Dami lowered the box to the floor without taking their eyes off the survivor. Their movements were slow now, exaggeratedly visible.
“Tess,” Charity said, “nobody’s going to touch you.”
“They already did.”
The words came out shredded.
Across the room, Kestrel looked up from the folder she’d been reading.
Lucky rose from his chair.
Neither of them moved closer.
Dami stood with their hands empty at their sides.
The survivor stared at them.
“You,” they said.
Dami didn’t deny it.
The survivor’s breath hitched so hard it hurt to hear.
“You came to the motel.”
Dami’s expression changed by less than most people would’ve noticed. Their jaw went rigid. Their eyes sharpened, not with threat, but memory.
“Yes,” they said.
Charity’s attention snapped to them. “Dami.”
“They asked me a direct question.”
“I didn’t ask you a question!” Tess shouted. “I know it was you.”
Dami went still.
The whole room seemed to arrange itself around that stillness.
Tess pressed harder against the wall as though she could force herself through it.
“You were wearing a gray jacket,” she said. “There was blood on the sleeve.”
Dami glanced down at their left arm.
An old reflex.
“Yes.”
“You knocked twice.”
“Yes.”
“You said you were from the front desk.”
“Yes.”
Lucky shifted nearer to the hallway, quietly clearing the path to the exit. Kestrel set the folder aside. She moved only as far as the edge of the table, keeping her body low and her hands visible.
Tess wasn’t looking at anyone but Dami.
“I knew you were lying,” she said. “I climbed out the bathroom window.”
Dami swallowed.
“You landed badly.”
Tess made a sound like she’d been struck.
Charity turned on Dami. “Stop.”
“I’m sorry,” Dami said immediately.
The words were for Tess, not Charity.
Tess’s whole body shook. “You remember.”
“Yes.”
“How many people did you drag back?”
Dami’s mouth opened.
Closed.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“No.”
The honesty was terrible.
Tess laughed once, breathless and ugly. “Of course you don’t.”
Kestrel’s gaze moved to Dami, a silent warning against explanation. Against reaching for conditioning as a shield. Against trying to make the damage smaller because they hadn’t chosen the hands that made them do it.
Dami understood.
They always understood Kestrel fastest when she said nothing.
Tess touched the side of her neck.
There was no collar there now, but her fingers found the place one had been.
“You caught me behind the ice machine,” she said. “I hit you with a pipe.”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t even react.”
“I couldn’t feel it.”
“I hit you again.”
“Yes.”
“And you kept coming.”
Dami’s breathing had changed. Measured in. Measured out. Too deliberate to be calm.
Tess stared at them with tears running down her face.
“You looked at me like I was nothing.”
Dami’s voice came quieter. “I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I remember your room number. I remember the broken window latch. I remember you’d shoved the dresser against the door, but the carpet caught under the left leg, so it didn’t hold.” Their fingers curled against their palms. “I remember you had no shoes. I remember there was glass in your foot.”
“Dami,” Lucky said softly.
They stopped.
Tess looked sick.
Dami took one step backward.
Then another.
“You remember all of that,” Tess whispered, “but you don’t remember how many of us there were?”
“No.”
“Why?”
Dami’s face had gone blank in the way it did when blankness was the only thing holding everything else in.
“Because they didn’t let me keep names.”
Tess flinched.
Dami did too.
Not from pain. From the sight of it.
“They gave me photographs,” Dami said. “Routes. Likely shelters. Medical risks. Whether you were expected to fight.”
“You broke my wrist.”
“Yes.”
The word landed without defense.
“You put your knee on my back.”
“Yes.”
“I couldn’t breathe.”
Dami’s voice nearly failed. “I know.”
“You told me to stop making it worse.”
Dami closed their eyes.
There it was.
The sentence.
Not a command WRU had programmed into them. Not a script handed over by a handler. Something Dami had said with their own mouth because Tess had been fighting and Dami had needed her still.
When they opened their eyes again, Tess was waiting.
“I said that,” Dami said.
“You said it like you were helping me.”
“Thought I was.”
Tess stared at them.
Dami’s voice thinned.
“They told me the retrieval team coming after me would use restraints that damaged shoulders. Said you had a heart condition. Said if I brought you in quietly, you wouldn’t be punished.” Their gaze dropped to the floor between them. “Believed them.”
“And did they punish me?”
Dami didn’t answer.
Tess’s face twisted. “Did they?”
“Yes.”
Dami said it so softly the room almost lost it.
Tess crossed the space before anyone realized she’d moved.
Lucky tensed.
Kestrel lifted one hand, stopping him without touching either of them.
Tess slapped Dami across the face.
The crack echoed off the walls.
Dami’s head turned with the force of it but they didn’t raise their hands. They couldn’t feel the sting. They could only hear it, calculate the angle, register the heat blooming in Tess’s palm and the horror on Charity’s face.
Tess hit them again.
They stood there.
The third time, Kestrel moved. She caught Tess’s wrist gently before the strike landed and released it the moment Tess stopped pulling.
“You don’t have to protect them,” Tess said.
“I’m not.” Kestrel’s voice was calm enough to cut. “I’m protecting you from having to wonder later whether you became someone you didn’t want to be.”
Tess yanked her hand back.
Dami’s cheek was reddening.
They didn’t touch it.
Kestrel looked at them. “Leave the room.”
Tess gave a broken laugh. “That’s it?”
“No.” Kestrel didn’t look away from Dami. “It’s the first thing.”
Dami nodded.
They bent to pick up the box.
“Leave it,” Charity said.
They straightened again.
For one second, they looked uncertain where to put their hands. Then they held them loosely in front of their body, visible and empty.
“Won’t come into this wing while you’re here,” they said quietly Tess. “Lucky can tell me the routes. Won’t see me unless you ask to.”
“I’m never going to ask.”
They nodded. Their lips pressed together.
Tess’s breathing was ragged. “I spent six years thinking you were coming through every door.”
Dami looked at the doorway behind her, then deliberately shifted farther from it so they weren’t blocking the exit.
“Won’t come through this one again.”
Something in Tess’s expression cracked.
Not forgiveness.
Nothing close.
Just the shock of being believed without argument.
They turned.
“Wait.”
Their body halted before thought.
Every muscle locked.
Tess saw it.
So did Kestrel.
The command response was small, almost invisible, but survivors knew the language of bodies trained to obey.
Tess’s anger faltered.
Dami stayed facing the hallway.
“You were one of them,” she said.
“Yes.”
“But you were wearing a collar too.”
The room went silent.
Dami’s hand rose halfway to their neck before they stopped it.
“Yes.”
“I thought it was tactical gear.”
“Was made to look like it.”
Tess wiped her face with the heel of her hand. “Did they send someone after you when you ran?”
“Yes.”
“Did they catch you?”
Dami looked toward Kestrel. She held their gaze, steady and close. She didn’t answer for them.
“Yes,” Dami said.
Tess stood very still.
“What happened?”
“That isn’t something they owe you,” Charity said.
Dami’s gaze remained on Tess. “I was returned.”
The phrasing was clinical. WRU language. Safer than saying what return had meant.
Tess understood anyway.
“And then they sent you back out.”
“Yes.”
“To do it to somebody else.”
“Yes.”
Tess’s mouth trembled.
Dami waited.
There was no version of this where they asked her to see the collar before the hands. No version where their captivity erased hers. They’d learned that guilt could become another demand if placed in the wrong person’s lap.
So they stood quietly and carried it themselves.
Tess looked at Kestrel. “You knew?”
“I knew what they were trained for,” Kestrel said. “I didn’t know they’d been sent for you.”
“And you let them work here?”
“They don’t do retrievals.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“No.” Kestrel’s voice stayed level. “It isn’t.”
She came around the edge of the table, stopping several feet away.
“Dami doesn’t live here,” she said. “They live with me and Wick. But they work here. They’re part of the Foundation, and we don’t ask anyone they harmed to forgive them, trust them, speak to them, or share space with them.”
Tess’s eyes flashed. “And if I say I want them gone?”
Dami’s shoulders lowered slightly.
They’d already accepted the answer.
Kestrel noticed.
Of course she did.
“This is your first day,” Kestrel said. “You don’t have to make permanent decisions while your body thinks you’re back in that motel. Tonight, Dami goes home with me. You stay here. They won’t return to this wing, use this entrance, or access your schedule.”
“And tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow you still don’t have to decide.”
Tess looked at Dami again.
“You’d go?”
Dami turned slowly enough to face her without startling her.
“Yes.”
“Just because I said so?”
“Don't want it to be unsafe for you.”
Kestrel’s jaw tightened. Her hand flexed once at her side, wanting to reach for Dami and refusing to make Tess watch her comfort them.
Tess saw that too.
“Then what?”
“I’d go home.”
“Where’s home?”
“With Kestrel and Wick.”
The answer was quiet but immediate.
Kestrel’s shoulders eased by a fraction.
Tess looked between them.
“You love them,” she said.
Kestrel answered without hesitation. “Yes.”
Tess flinched.
Kestrel let her.
“They’re my partner,” she continued. “Platonic. They’re family to me and to Wick.”
Dami’s eyes dropped.
“And I believe you,” Kestrel said. “I believe what they did to you. Loving Dami doesn’t require me to lie about that.”
Tess sank into the nearest chair as if her knees had stopped working.
Charity moved closer but didn’t touch her.
After a moment, Tess said, “I don’t want them gone.”
Dami looked up.
“I don’t want to see them,” she added fiercely. “I don’t want them near my room. I don’t want them knowing my schedule. I don’t want them asking about me.”
“They won’t,” Lucky said.
Tess stared down at her hands.
“But I don’t want WRU deciding they’re a monster and that being the end of it.” Her voice shook. “They did that to all of us.”
Dami’s face folded for half a second.
A tiny, involuntary fracture.
Then it was gone.
Tess shot them a look.
Despite everything, a strange sound escaped Lucky. Not laughter. Nearly.
Tess rubbed her palm, the one she’d struck Dami with.
“You really can’t feel that?”
“No.”
“That doesn’t make me feel better.”
“Shouldn’t.”
Tess nodded once. Then she looked away.
It was dismissal, and Dami recognized it.
They left without picking up the box.
Kestrel stayed with Tess until Charity had settled beside her and Lucky had brought over a printed floor plan.
The campaign launched at 8:03 on a Tuesday morning. There was no press release and no statement from WRU.
There was a mother crying on television.
Kestrel was halfway through buttoning the cuff of Wick’s shirt when the television in the Foundation’s executive conference room cut from the weather to a photograph of a smiling young man standing beside a Christmas tree.
The photograph was several years old. His hair was longer than Kestrel remembered. His smile was wide and fixed, his hands folded neatly in front of him.
Positioned.
Dami stopped beside the coffee machine and Wick felt Kestrel’s fingers go still against his wrist.
Onscreen, the host leaned toward the woman seated opposite her. She looked to be about sixty with silver-blond hair. She was dressed in a cream blouse. A tasteful gold cross at her throat. She held a crumpled tissue in one hand and a framed photograph in the other.
“Tell us about your son,” the host said gently.
The woman’s mouth trembled.
“Eli is vulnerable,” she said. “He’s always been vulnerable. He needs structure. He needs medication. He needs people who understand his condition.”
Behind her, the screen changed to a photograph of Eli washing dishes. Then another of him kneeling beside a garden bed. Then another of him seated on the floor at the woman’s feet, his head resting against her knee. Every photograph showed him looking at the camera. Every photograph showed his collar.
The host’s expression softened.
“And you believe he was taken from your home?”
“I know he was.” The woman pressed the tissue to the corner of one eye. “These people targeted him. They filled his head with things. They told him he was being abused. They convinced him that the family who loved him was his enemy.”
Dami set their mug down carefully. Kestrel didn’t look at them. She didn’t need to. She knew the rhythm of that stillness.
Onscreen, the woman drew a shaking breath.
“He didn’t understand what he was signing. He can’t make those decisions by himself. He was happy. We were happy.”
A banner appeared across the bottom of the television.
FAMILIES LEFT BEHIND: THE HUMAN COST OF EXTREMIST ACTIVISM
Underneath it, in smaller letters:
#BringThemHome
Wick’s hand closed around Kestrel’s wrist.
“Turn it up,” he said.
Dami did.
The segment shifted to an immaculate man in a navy suit standing outside a WRU-branded family support center.
“We’ve seen a disturbing increase in vulnerable adults being removed from stable homes by unregulated activist networks,” he said. “These groups operate without transparency, without clinical oversight, and without regard for existing guardianship arrangements.”
The footage behind him showed the exterior of a community center.
One of theirs.
The sign had been blurred, but not well enough. Kestrel knew the brickwork. She knew the cracked concrete planter by the front steps. She knew which basement door wasn’t visible from that angle
“They filmed that yesterday,” Lucky said from the doorway. No one had heard him enter. His phone was already in his hand.
“I’ve got three staff reporting news vans outside their sites. Two centers have had calls asking whether they’re holding missing persons.”
“Are they?” Wick asked.
Lucky’s expression didn’t change.
“No.”
The answer came too quickly to be mistaken for anything but policy.
Wick nodded once.
On television, the WRU representative continued.
“These aren’t criminals fleeing justice. These are sons, daughters, spouses, and dependents being isolated from the people who know and love them best.”
Dami watched the footage without blinking. They hummed.
“Changed the vocabulary,” they said.
Kestrel finally looked at them. Dami stood behind her now, close enough that the front of their shirt brushed her shoulder. One of their hands settled at the back of her neck, thumb resting just below her hairline, checking in with her.
She leaned back into it for half a second.
“From what?” she asked.
“Ownership to guardianship. Recovery to reunification. Runaway to vulnerable adults.” Dami’s voice was flat. “Forced return sounds like elder care.”
The woman on television was crying harder now. The host reached across the space between them and took her hand.
“What would you say to Eli, if he’s watching?”
The woman turned toward the camera. Her grief vanished so quickly Kestrel almost missed it. Her mouth stayed soft but her eyes didn’t.
“You know where you belong,” she said. “You know who you are without them confusing you. Come home before you make this worse.”
Kestrel felt Wick’s fingers tighten around her wrist.
The woman smiled.
“We forgive you.”
The television went dark.
Lucky held the remote.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
The silence was broken by the conference room phone.
Then Wick’s phone.
Then Lucky’s.
Then the tablet on the table began chiming with incoming messages.
All at once, the room filled with sound.
Dami crossed to the wall controls and silenced the conference phone. Lucky muted his mobile but kept reading. Wick ignored his entirely.
Kestrel looked at the black television screen and saw her own reflection.
Small. Straight-backed. Wick seated beside her, one hand around her wrist. Dami towering behind them, their palm still warm against her neck.
A family portrait, if you didn’t know better.
“What else?” she asked.
Lucky’s thumb moved across his screen.
“WRU’s launched a site. Missing-person profiles. Owner testimonials. Anonymous reporting line. They’ve partnered with three guardianship advocacy groups and something called the Coalition for Ethical Family Restoration.”
“Real organization?” Wick asked.
“Registered six weeks ago.”
“Funded by?”
“Not listed.”
“WRU,” Dami said.
“Yes.”
Another message came through.
Lucky read it and stopped.
Kestrel saw the change before he spoke. Lucky rarely showed fear. He was calculating.
“What?”
“One of the profiles is Jonah.”
Kestrel took her wrist gently from Wick’s hand and stood.
“Where is he?”
“Fourth floor quiet room. Charity’s with him.”
“Did he see it?”
“Yes.”
Kestrel was already moving. Dami followed without being asked. Wick planted both hands on the arms of his chair.
“K-Kestrel.”
She turned. His face had gone pale beneath the anger.
“You can’t go down there and tell him they won’t find him.”
“I know.”
“You can’t promise—”
“I know.”
His jaw worked. Kestrel crossed back to him. She bent, cupped the back of his head, and pressed her forehead to his.
His breath caught.
“We don’t promise safety,” she said quietly. “We build it.”
Wick’s eyes closed. His hand found her waist. Dami stepped closer, their palm settling between Wick’s shoulder blades. For one brief moment, all three of them held on.
Kestrel straightened.
“Lucky, get counsel in here. Freeze all public comments until they arrive. Nobody says stolen. Nobody says trafficked. Nobody says we’ve seen any of the people in those profiles.”
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The call came through the Foundation’s public assistance line at eleven seventeen on a Tuesday morning.
It had already been a bad day.
A former Domestic had panicked when a volunteer shut the community kitchen door, convinced the click of the latch meant everyone inside had failed inspection. Charity was still upstairs with them, sitting on the floor beside the pantry because standing over them had made the panic worse.
Someone had left a voicemail threatening to burn down the downtown clinic. Lucky had listened to it twice, extracted the number, and forwarded it to security without letting anyone else hear the way the caller had described the people inside.
The printer had eaten thirty-seven pages of an emergency filing and then produced one perfect sheet containing nothing but the opposing counsel’s letterhead.
Nadia was standing over it with the paper tray in her hands when the phone rang.
“I’m going to kill it,” she said.
Lucky glanced up from the security desk, where six camera feeds and three open incident logs competed for space on his monitors.
“The printer?”
“Yes.”
The phone rang again.
The public resource line used a different tone from the internal phones. Softer. Less alarming by design.
It still made several people in the room look up.
Nadia dropped the tray onto the table and snatched up the receiver.
“Wickham Foundation public resource line. This call may be documented for staff safety. How can I direct you?”
There was breathing on the other end.
Not crying.
Not yet.
“I need help releasing someone.”
Nadia stilled.
Across the room, Lucky’s attention sharpened.
He didn’t move immediately. A sudden rush toward the phone might make Nadia defensive, and Lucky had learned to treat anger like a startled animal. You didn’t corner it. You gave it an exit that didn’t look like surrender.
Nadia’s fingers tightened around the receiver.
“What do you mean by releasing?”
A long pause.
“I purchased him.”
The words changed the temperature of the room.
The administrative assistant nearest the supply cabinet stopped sorting envelopes. A volunteer at the copier quietly gathered their papers and left through the side door without being asked.
Nadia’s face emptied.
Lucky rose from his chair.
The woman continued quickly, as though speed might keep Nadia from hanging up.
“Four years ago. Through WRU. I know what that sounds like.”
“It sounds like you bought a person.”
“Yes.”
There was denial. No correction. No explanation about contracts or legality or how frightened she’d been when she placed the order.
Just yes.
It made Nadia angrier.
Lucky moved quietly toward the office door and opened the internal communication panel on the wall. He typed three words into the priority channel.
OWNER ON LINE.
A moment later, the status changed from gray to red.
Seen.
“I don’t know how to do this safely,” the woman said. “I tried telling him he could leave. He thought I was angry with him. He started apologizing. Then he knelt down, and I—”
“You what?”
The question came out so sharply that the assistant in the hall flinched.
“I told him to stand up.”
Nadia’s voice hardened. “In what tone?”
“I don’t know.”
“You do know.”
Another silence.
Lucky came to stand within reach of the receiver. He didn’t touch it.
“The one they taught me to use,” the woman whispered.
Lucky looked at Nadia.
She stared straight ahead.
Every owner was irredeemable.
Nadia had said it during orientation. She’d said it after raids, hearings, hospital extractions, and intake interviews where survivors couldn’t remember their own birthdays but could recite an owner’s morning schedule down to the minute.
She’d said it after a sixteen-year-old former Domestic apologized for bleeding on the clinic floor while stitches were being placed in their scalp.
She’d said it after a Romantic survivor asked permission to wear socks.
She’d said it when donors suggested outreach programs for “regretful purchasers,” as though regret were a service the Foundation owed people who’d signed order forms.
She’d said it when Wick proposed a quiet legal route for owners willing to terminate contracts without sending people back through WRU.
They knew what they were doing when they bought them.
Every single one.
Nadia had never found a reason to soften the sentence.
“You need to stay on the line,” Lucky said quietly.
Nadia covered the receiver with her palm.
“I’m not helping her.”
“You’re helping him.”
“She kept him for four years.”
“I heard.”
“She used command tones.”
“I heard that too.”
“She called him someone like she’s just discovered the word.”
Lucky’s gaze stayed steady.
“There’s a person in her house who thinks being released means he’s failed.”
Nadia’s jaw tightened.
Lucky didn’t tell her to calm down. He valued his life.
“You don’t have to forgive her,” he said. “You do have to keep her talking.”
The office door opened.
Kestrel entered first.
She was small enough that people occasionally mistook her size for softness right up until she looked at them. Her expression had settled into the focused stillness that made everyone else unconsciously lower their voices.
Wick came behind her on his forearm crutches, his color poor from the long morning. His right hand shook faintly around the grip. He’d spent most of the previous hour in a legal meeting and had already ignored two reminders to sit down.
Dami ducked beneath the frame last.
They had to incline their head beneath several of the older Foundation doorways. They closed the door carefully behind them and took in the room in a single sweep: Nadia’s hand over the receiver, Lucky beside her, the cleared workspace, Wick’s unsteady stance, Kestrel’s attention fixed on the phone.
Kestrel crossed to Nadia.
“What do we know?”
Nadia uncovered the receiver.
“We know she bought a man four years ago, and now she’d like us to explain how to feel better about it.”
“I didn’t say that,” the caller whispered.
“Good,” Nadia said. “We don’t provide absolution.”
Kestrel held out her hand.
Nadia didn’t give her the phone.
“Nadia.”
“She doesn’t get to call here and make us clean this up for her.”
“No,” Kestrel said. “She doesn’t.”
Nadia’s jaw flexed.
Kestrel’s voice stayed even.
“But he gets every possible chance to leave alive.”
For several seconds, Nadia didn’t move.
The caller breathed into the silence.
Somewhere in the hall, a medication cart rattled past.
Nadia shoved the receiver into Kestrel’s hand hard enough to make the cord swing.
Kestrel caught it without fumbling and lifted it to her ear.
“My name is Kestrel. I’m going to ask you several questions. Some of them will sound accusatory. That’s because they are.”
“All right.”
“Is he injured?”
“No.”
“When did you last see him?”
“Twenty minutes ago.”
“Was he conscious, alert, and able to move independently?”
“Yes.”
“Has he threatened to hurt himself?”
“No.”
“Has he ever been prevented from eating, drinking, sleeping, or accessing medication as punishment?”
The woman inhaled sharply.
“No.”
Kestrel waited.
“Not by me,” she added.
They all heard the distinction.
Kestrel’s expression didn’t change.
“Has he received medical care outside WRU since purchase?”
“Yes. Private doctors.”
“Were those doctors informed of his legal status?”
“They knew he was a pet.”
“Did they examine him with you in the room?”
“Yes.”
“Did they ever speak to him privately?”
A pause.
“I don’t think so.”
Wick closed his eyes.
The movement was slight, but Dami noticed. Their hand settled against the center of his back, broad and warm between his shoulder blades. Wick leaned into the contact for half a second before straightening again. They didn’t remove their hand.
“Does he have identification?” Kestrel asked.
“WRU identification.”
“Anything issued under a civilian identity?”
“No.”
“Birth certificate?”
“No.”
“Social security record?”
“No.”
“Passport?”
“No.”
“Any document that doesn’t identify him as property, product, dependent, or household staff?”
The woman was quiet.
“No.”
“Access to money?”
“I gave him a card.”
“In his name?”
“No.”
“Does he know the PIN?”
A pause.
“No.”
“Has he ever used it without asking you first?”
“No.”
“Then he doesn’t have access to money. You have a card you allow him to carry.”
The caller took a shaky breath.
“All right.”
“Does he have a phone?”
“Yes.”
“Who purchased it?”
“I did.”
“Who pays for it?”
“I do.”
“Can you monitor it?”
“Yes.”
“Location?”
“Yes.”
“Messages?”
“I can access the account.”
“Photographs?”
“I think so.”
“Disable your access now.”
“I don’t know how.”
“Then don’t touch the settings yourself. Turn off the account once he has a replacement device. Purchase the new one in cash. Do not register it under your name. Do not transfer his old data unless he specifically requests it after being told what the transfer includes.”
The woman breathed unevenly into the receiver.
“All right.”
Lucky began writing.
Not on the computer.
On paper.
Anything entered into Foundation systems created a record, and records could be subpoenaed. Until counsel had assessed the situation, they needed details without establishing that the Foundation possessed, sheltered, or intended to shelter anyone.
Kestrel glanced at his notes.
NO NAME FOR OWNER. NO ADDRESS. NO CONFIRMATION OF CUSTODY.
She gave the smallest nod.
“Does he have clothing he chose himself?” she asked.
“I buy his clothes.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“No.”
“Does he select what he wears each day?”
“Usually.”
“What does usually mean?”
“If we have guests, I choose.”
“Why?”
The woman hesitated.
“Because he dresses too casually.”
Nadia’s mouth curled.
Kestrel continued before she could speak.
“Has he ever been outside the residence alone?”
“No.”
“Has he ever been allowed to walk away from you in a public place?”
“No.”
“Does he have keys?”
“Yes.”
“Can he leave without triggering an alarm?”
Silence.
“No.”
Nadia made a sound of disgust.
The caller heard it.
“I know,” she said.
“No,” Nadia snapped from beside Kestrel. “You’re beginning to know. He’s been living it.”
Kestrel glanced at her but didn’t tell her to leave.
Lucky shifted slightly closer to Nadia as a warning.
“Do you have children?” Kestrel asked.
“No.”
“Other household members?”
“My husband.”
“Does he know you’re making this call?”
“No.”
“Would he interfere?”
“Yes.”
The room changed again.
Lucky crossed to the interior windows and closed the blinds one by one.
Dami moved closer to Kestrel, not touching her yet, but near enough that their sleeve brushed hers when they shifted.
Wick’s fingers tightened around one crutch.
“Does your husband have access to weapons?” Kestrel asked.
“Yes.”
“What kind?”
“A handgun. Two rifles.”
“Where are they stored?”
“The rifles are in a locked cabinet. The handgun is usually in the bedroom safe.”
“Who knows the combinations?”
“My husband and I.”
“Does Basil?”
“No.”
“Does your husband carry the handgun?”
“Sometimes.”
“Has he threatened Basil with it?”
“No.”
Kestrel waited.
The silence stretched until the woman corrected herself.
“Not directly.”
Nadia closed her eyes.
Kestrel’s voice remained level.
“What does indirectly mean?”
“He cleaned it at the kitchen table after Basil talked about leaving once.”
Wick’s breath caught.
Dami’s hand slid from his back to his waist, steadying him when one crutch shifted against the tile.
Kestrel’s face went utterly still.
“Did your husband say anything?”
“He said the world was dangerous for people who didn’t appreciate protection.”
Nadia whispered something under her breath that Lucky chose not to acknowledge.
“Does the person you purchased have Guard Dog training?” Kestrel asked.
“No. Domestic and Romantic.”
Nadia turned away. Her hand went flat against the filing cabinet as if she needed to remind herself where the room ended.
Wick’s eyes opened. He looked at the floor.
Romantic.
The designation carried its own architecture.
Conditioned attachment. Return pressure. Reward tied to affection. Fear of replacement. Obedience taught through intimacy until separation felt like bodily failure.
Dami’s thumb moved once against Wick’s side.
Kestrel’s expression didn’t change.
“What name does he use?”
“Basil.”
“Is that the name WRU assigned?”
“Yes.”
“Has he ever indicated that he remembers another?”
“He says he doesn’t.”
“Has he ever been offered the opportunity to choose a different one?”
“I asked once.”
“How did you ask?”
“I said he could pick something else if he disliked Basil.”
“What did he say?”
“That he liked whatever I liked.”
Nadia’s hand curled against the filing cabinet.
Kestrel looked briefly at Lucky.
He added another line to the paper.
NAME CHOICE MUST OCCUR WITHOUT OWNER PRESENT.
“What happens when you tell Basil he can leave?” Kestrel asked.
“He thinks I’m replacing him.” The caller’s voice broke on the final word. “He asks what he did wrong. He says he can improve. Yesterday he offered to stop eating dinner because I complained about grocery prices.”
No one in the office spoke.
The printer gave a soft mechanical click behind them and spat out a blank page.
Nobody looked at it.
“He thought that was the problem,” the woman continued. “He thought I was releasing him because he cost too much to feed.”
Nadia turned back around. Her eyes were bright and furious.
“And what did you say?”
“I told him that wasn’t it.”
“How?”
“I said I didn’t want to own him anymore.”
Nadia laughed once.
It was a terrible sound.
“So you told a Romantic that you didn’t want him.”
“I didn’t know how else to say it.”
“You could’ve started by calling him a person.”
“I do call him a person.”
“Since when?”
The woman didn’t answer.
Kestrel closed her eyes briefly. When she opened them again, the calm was colder.
“You will not attempt another conversation about release without guidance,” she said. “You will not tell him you don’t want him. You will not describe him as unwanted, burdensome, expensive, replaceable, unnecessary, or free.”
“Why not free?”
“Because WRU teaches them that freedom is abandonment with prettier language.”
Dami’s gaze shifted to Kestrel. She reached sideways without looking. Her fingers found theirs. They closed their hand around hers. The touch was hidden partly by the desk, but Wick saw it. He saw everything Kestrel did with her hands.
Kestrel continued. “You need to tell him that nothing is being taken away as punishment. Tell him he hasn’t failed. Tell him food, shelter, clothing, and medical care aren’t rewards for keeping you pleased.”
“What if he doesn’t believe me?”
“He probably won’t.”
“Then what do I do?”
“You stop expecting one conversation to undo four years of captivity.”
The woman began crying quietly.
Nadia’s mouth twisted.
Kestrel didn’t soften. “Do not make him soothe you while you explain this.”
“I’m not trying to.”
“You’re crying.”
“I can’t help it.”
“You can help whether you call him into the room to witness it.”
The crying became muffled, as though the woman had covered her mouth.
Kestrel waited until the sound settled.
“Are you willing to leave the residence?”
“What?”
“Your husband is armed and likely to interfere. Basil may not be able to choose departure while the household remains intact around him. Are you willing to leave temporarily?”
“This is my house.”
Nadia stepped forward.
“There it is.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Yes, you did,” Nadia said. “Your house. Your money. Your husband. Your property. Every piece of the world belongs to you, and now you’re shocked he can’t imagine himself walking out of it.”
The caller’s breathing became ragged.
Wick moved closer to Nadia.
“Nadia.”
She rounded on him. “Don’t.”
“I’m not asking you to forgive her.”
“There’s nothing to forgive.”
“Then don’t forgive her.”
His stutter caught slightly as he continued. “B-but don’t make him pay for your hatred of her.”
Nadia looked as though he’d struck her.
For an instant, Wick wished the words back not because they were untrue but because he knew what it was to be included in the category she hated.
Owner.
The word had existed on paper beside Kestrel’s name.
His household. His dependent. His responsibility.
His.
Wick’s face tightened.
Dami placed their free hand more firmly at his waist.
For a moment, Nadia seemed ready to walk out.
Instead, she dragged a chair away from the desk and sat.
Hard.
The metal legs scraped across the floor.
Kestrel turned her attention back to the call.
“We can arrange for an independent attorney to contact you. The attorney will not represent your interests. They will represent Adrian’s.”
“Yes.”
“You will surrender all WRU contracts, medical files, training notes, purchase records, photographs used for compliance documentation, tracking credentials, household schedules, access codes, correspondence with WRU, and records of any disciplinary instructions provided to you.”
The caller made a small sound.
“All photographs?”
“All intimate images. All punishment records. All inspection photographs. Everything.”
“I never punished him.”
“Then surrender the records proving that.”
“I didn’t take intimate pictures.”
“Did your husband?”
Silence.
Nadia looked up. The anger in her face became something darker.
“I don’t know,” the woman whispered.
“You’ll find out,” Kestrel said. “Without confronting your husband and without alerting him to your plans. You’ll give our attorney access to every device and cloud account you control.”
“All right.”
“If you discover evidence of assault, coercion, exploitation, or trafficking, you will not delete it.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“You might be tempted to.”
The caller said nothing.
“You will not warn your husband before counsel secures the evidence.”
“All right.”
“You will not ask Basil to protect you from the legal consequences of this.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You will not ask him to say you were kind.”
The woman cried harder.
Kestrel’s hand tightened around Dami’s.
“You will not ask him to tell authorities that he consented.”
“I never—”
“You will not ask him to remain in contact. You will not ask where he goes. You will not follow him. You will not send gifts. You will not appear at services intended for survivors. You will not use mutual acquaintances, staff, attorneys, doctors, or social media to reach him.”
“I understand.”
“No,” Kestrel said. “You agree. Understanding may come later.”
Another long pause.
Then the woman said, “I agree.”
Lucky slid a notepad across the desk.
Kestrel glanced down at his writing.
HUSBAND HOME?
“Where is your husband now?”
“At work.”
“When does he return?”
“Six.”
“And Basil?”
“In the kitchen.”
“What is he doing?”
“Making lunch.”
“For himself?”
The woman went quiet. “For me.”
Nadia looked down at her hands.
“Can he hear you?” Kestrel asked.
“No. I’m in the car.”
“Where is the car?”
“In a pharmacy parking lot.”
“Is that a place you go regularly?”
“Yes.”
“Does your husband monitor your location?”
“Yes.”
Lucky was already typing into a secure terminal now, checking what could be checked without asking for identifying information.
Kestrel read his next note.
“Stay where you are for the amount of time you would normally spend there. Do not drive directly to an attorney’s office. Do not return home early. Do not begin gathering documents where Basilcan see you. Do not behave as though something catastrophic is about to happen.”
“But something is.”
“For you, perhaps.”
Kestrel’s tone remained flat.
“For Basil, this needs to be the beginning of a choice.”
The caller inhaled shakily.
“What happens to me?”
Nadia stood so quickly the chair legs scraped again.
Kestrel lifted one hand.
“What happens to you,” Kestrel said, “is not part of the safety plan.”
“I could go to prison.”
“Yes.”
“My husband could hurt me.”
“Yes.”
“I’m trying to do the right thing.”
“You’re trying to stop doing the wrong thing. Those aren’t identical.”
The woman fell silent.
Wick lowered himself carefully into the chair beside Nadia.
The movement cost him. His arms trembled, and his breath caught sharply when his weight shifted.
Dami released Kestrel’s hand only long enough to crouch beside Wick.
They checked the placement of both crutches, moved one away from the chair leg, and rested a hand against his knee.
Wick looked down at them.
“I’m fine.”
“You nearly fell.”
“I corrected.”
“Corrected you.”
Wick’s mouth tightened, but he leaned back.
Nadia watched them, then looked away.
On the phone, the woman whispered, “Will you still help me?”
Kestrel looked at Nadia.
Not because Nadia had authority over the decision.
Because Nadia needed to hear the answer.
“We’ll help Basil.”
The woman swallowed audibly.
“Yes,” she said. “That’s what I meant.”
“No,” Nadia said.
Everyone looked at her.
She stepped closer to the phone.
“That isn’t what you meant.”
“Nadia,” Lucky warned.
But her voice had changed.
The rage was still there.
It simply had somewhere to go now.
“You want someone to tell you this means you’re different from every owner we’ve ever dragged into court. Maybe you are. Maybe you aren’t. I don’t care.”
The woman said nothing.
Nadia leaned both hands on the desk.
“But listen carefully. You don’t get to hesitate when he cries. You don’t get to change your mind when he begs to stay. You don’t get to decide his panic means he secretly wants to belong to you.”
“I won’t.”
“He may tell you he loves you.”
The woman made a wounded sound.
Nadia’s eyes shut for one second.
“He may mean it,” she said. “That doesn’t make the ownership less real.”
“I know.”
“You may love him too.”
No one moved.
Wick looked at Nadia.
Dami’s hand remained on his knee.
Kestrel stood with the receiver pressed to her ear, one shoulder barely touching Dami’s.
Nadia looked down at the scratches carved into the edge of the desk by years of anxious hands.
“That won’t make keeping him less monstrous.”
The caller began to sob.
Nadia waited.
She didn’t comfort her.
When the woman could breathe again, Nadia said, “Can you follow instructions without making him take care of your feelings?”
“Yes.”
“Can you let him hate you?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
“Can you let him tell people what you did without correcting his version?”
The silence lasted longer.
“Yes.”
“Can you accept that he may remember things differently from you?”
“Yes.”
“Can you let him leave while still loving you?”
The answer took the longest of all.
“Yes.”
Nadia pulled the notepad toward herself.
She wrote a number beneath Lucky’s notes and pushed it to Kestrel.
It belonged to one of the Foundation’s independent legal partners. Not the shelter. Not the clinic. Nothing that could reveal a survivor’s destination or confirm the Foundation had taken custody.
Kestrel read it to the caller.
“You will call from a device your husband cannot access. You will say you need an emergency emancipation consultation for a WRU-registered adult. You will not provide Adrian’s current location over voicemail.”
The woman repeated the instructions back.
She got the number wrong the first time.
Kestrel made her repeat it again.
Then again.
Lucky wrote a second number beneath it, this one for an emergency domestic-violence attorney who could advise the caller about leaving the armed husband without placing Basilin the center of her escape plan.
Kestrel read that one too.
“This attorney may represent you,” she said. “The first will not.”
“I understand.”
“You agree,” Nadia corrected from beside her.
The woman inhaled.
“I agree.”
They went through every instruction twice more.
By the end of the call, she had a list.
Cash, withdrawn in amounts unlikely to trigger an alert.
An unmonitored phone.
Civilian clothing in several sizes, left unopened so Basil could choose without performing gratitude.
Medication records.
WRU contract.
Household access codes.
Alarm instructions.
Vehicle keys.
A written statement clarifying that Basilwas not being expelled, punished, sold, transferred, surrendered, or returned.
A list of every person who knew he lived in the house.
A list of every doctor who had treated him.
No police unless requested by independent counsel.
No WRU representative.
No demand that he pack in front of them.
No request that he surrender the clothing already on his body.
No final meal.
No farewell speech.
No final embrace unless Basil initiated it.
No apology that required him to forgive.
No promise that they would see each other again.
When Kestrel finally ended the call, the room remained quiet.
The receiver clicked softly into its cradle.
No one moved for several seconds.
Nadia stared at the phone.
“She still bought him.”
“Yes,” Kestrel said.
“She kept him for four years.”
“Yes.”
“She let her husband—”
“We don’t know what happened.”
“We know enough.”
Kestrel nodded.
“Yes.”
Nadia’s mouth trembled.
“I meant what I said. They’re all irredeemable.”
Wick looked down.
The word entered him like cold water.
He felt Dami’s gaze move toward him, but they didn’t ask.
Dami rose from beside Wick.
They came to stand across the desk from Nadia, tall enough that she had to lift her chin.
“Perhaps.”
Nadia frowned. “That’s all you’ve got?”
“No.” Dami’s voice was quiet. “Don’t care about her.”
Nadia stared at them.
Dami continued. “Not about her. About him.”
Wick reached for Kestrel as she moved beside him.
She slipped under his arm carefully, one hand settling at the back of his neck. He pressed a tired kiss to her temple.
The contact was instinctive.
So was the way his hand tightened for one second too long.
Kestrel noticed.
She always noticed.
She didn’t pull away.
Dami remained near them, their fingers brushing Wick’s shoulder before settling against Kestrel’s back.
Nadia looked at the three of them.
Her gaze paused on Wick.
Something passed over her face.
Recognition, perhaps.
Or accusation.
Wick couldn’t tell which was worse.
Then she looked at the legal number she’d written.
“What if he refuses to leave?”
“He might,” Kestrel said.
“Then she gets to keep him?”
“No.”
Nadia’s attention snapped back to her.
Kestrel’s face had gone frighteningly still.
“His conditioning may prevent him from walking out. That doesn’t transform captivity into consent.”
“So what happens?”
“We keep making choices available. We bring in independent counsel. A trauma specialist. Someone with Romantic conditioning experience. We separate him from the owner long enough to determine what he wants without watching her face for the correct answer.”
“How long?”
“As long as it takes to establish that refusing departure isn’t the same as choosing ownership.”
“And if he asks to go back?”
Kestrel’s fingers curled gently into the fabric at Wick’s shoulder.
“Then we don’t lie to him about what going back means.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means we tell him the house is still controlled by the people who bought him. We tell him the husband is armed. We tell him returning could affect his legal case. We tell him attachment doesn’t obligate him to surrender every other option.”
“And then?”
“And then we keep the door open.”
Nadia looked down.
“I don’t know how to help someone I hate.”
“You don’t have to help her,” Lucky said from the security desk.
Nadia gave him a tired, furious look. “Everyone keeps saying that.”
“Because you keep making her the center of the room.”
Nadia flinched.
Lucky’s voice stayed gentle.
“He’s in a kitchen right now, probably trying to figure out what he did wrong. Make him the center.”
Nadia sat again.
The fight seemed to drain out of her all at once.
She rubbed the heel of one hand against her sternum.
“What do we put in the written plan?”
Kestrel eased away from Wick, though his hand remained loosely around her wrist until she was a step beyond reach.
“We start with language.”
Nadia opened a blank document.
Her fingers hovered above the keyboard.
“What language?"
“Tell him: You aren’t in trouble," Dami answered.
Nadia typed it.
“You haven’t failed.”
She typed that too.
“You don’t have to make a decision while anyone is watching you.”
Nadia’s fingers moved.
“No one will return you to WRU because you need more time," Kestrel said. “You may keep the name Basil, choose another name, or choose nothing yet.”
“You don’t have to speak to the owner before leaving," Lucky added
Wick looked at the screen. His throat felt tight.
“You aren’t being replaced,” he said.
Nadia’s hands stopped. For the first time since the call began, she looked directly at him.
Wick held her gaze.
He didn’t know what she saw.
A founder.
A Wickham.
A man who’d technically owned the woman standing beside him.
One more exception demanding to be called different.
Nadia looked back at the document and typed the sentence.
Charity appeared in the doorway, having been pulled from the clinic by the internal alert.
She took in the room, the faces, the phone still lying slightly off-center on the desk.
Nadia looked at the words on the screen.
Her eyes filled again, but this time she didn’t turn away.
“An owner called.”
Charity’s expression hardened.
Nadia nodded.
“I know.”
She looked back at the document.
Then typed the final line herself.
Nothing you choose will make you undeserving of help.
Nadia read it twice.
Lucky read it over her shoulder.
Dami’s head tilted slightly, as though testing the sentence for hidden conditions.
Kestrel’s hand came to rest against the back of Nadia’s chair.
Wick stayed where he was.
“She doesn’t get forgiven for this,” Nadia said.
“No,” Kestrel replied.
Nadia saved the document.
“But he gets out.”
Kestrel’s hand found hers briefly.
Nadia stiffened. After a moment, she turned her palm upward and held on.
“Yes,” Kestrel said. “He gets out.”
Behind them, the printer began producing the missing pages of the emergency filing.
All thirty-seven.
Perfectly ordered.
Lucky looked at it.
Nadia looked at it.
The printer made one final, self-satisfied mechanical sound.
Nadia wiped her eyes with the heel of her free hand.
“I still hate that thing.”
Lucky nodded solemnly.
“That’s reasonable.”
No one laughed much.
But they did laugh.
Only once.
Only enough to breathe.
Then Lucky gathered the pages, Dami began building the security checklist, Charity called the trauma specialist, and Kestrel opened a new file without entering Basil's name.
Wick remained seated for another moment, his hands folded over the grips of his crutches.
Every owner is irredeemable.
Nadia’s sentence stayed with him.
He didn’t ask her whether she meant him too.
Not then.
There was a man in a kitchen waiting to be told he hadn’t failed.
For the moment, Wick made himself keep Basil at the center.
For the first ten minutes, everyone pretended she was making a call. For the next twenty, everyone pretended she was speaking with counsel. By forty-five minutes, Rho stopped pretending.
“She took the note,” Rho said.
Lucky stood near exam room two with his arms folded, watching the door where the man had been taken. “Yes.”
“Why did she take the note?”
“Because if one more person looked at it, she might have had to become unreasonable.”
Dami, near the hallway, said, “She’s already unreasonable.”
Lucky glanced at them.
Their face didn't change. “I mean more.”
Wick sat behind the intake desk, one crutch propped against the wall, phone in his hand, doing nothing with it.
That worried everyone more. He knew where Kestrel was. Or he could find out.
He hadn't.
Rho turned on him. “You’re not tracking her?”
Wick looked up. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because she left.”
Rho’s mouth tightened. She looked away because that was exactly the kind of answer Kestrel would have wanted, and all of them hated it.
In exam room two, the man sat on the paper-covered table with his coat still in his lap.
He hadn't let go of it.
Lucky stood by the counter. Charity had arrived fifteen minutes after Kestrel left and now moved through the room with the kind of careful practicality that kept people from shattering out of politeness.
“I’m going to ask about injuries,” Charity said. “You can answer, refuse, or say you don’t know.”
The man nodded.
“Any pain right now?”
He smiled. “I can tolerate discomfort.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
The smile faltered. Charity waited.
The man looked at the floor. “The pin scratched me.”
Charity’s face did something fast and terrible, then settled.
“Thank you for telling me. Anywhere else?”
His fingers tightened on the coat. “My chest hurts.”
“Sharp, dull, tight, burning?”
“I don’t know.”
“Okay. Does it feel like fear?”
He looked up. This time, the smile didn't come.
“Yes,” he whispered.
Charity nodded. “That still counts.”
His eyes filled.
“I wasn’t bad.”
“No,” Charity said.
“I was quiet.”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t ask to stay.”
Lucky closed his eyes.
Charity kept her voice steady. “No.”
“I didn’t ask to go.”
“No.”
His mouth trembled. “They said he loved me too much to leave me to the lawyers.”
Lucky’s jaw tightened. Charity’s hands stilled on the chart.
The man looked between them.
“He died,” he whispered. “My owner died, and everyone cried, and I didn’t know what to do because he told me I’d go with him, but then there was a funeral and then paperwork and then they put me in the car.”
He looked down at the coat in his lap.
“I thought they were taking me home.”
The room held around that.
Carefully.
No one rushed to fill it.
After a while, Charity said, “Do you want the coat on your lap?”
The man looked confused.
“It’s his,” he said.
“Your owner’s?”
A flinch.
“Yes.”
“Do you want it on your lap?”
He looked down. His hands had locked around the wool so tightly his knuckles had gone pale.
“I don’t know.”
“Okay.”
Lucky said, “You don’t have to know today.”
The man looked at him.
The words didn't comfort him.
Not yet.
At one hour and twelve minutes, Wick finally made a call to Maddie Singh.
“I need a probate search on Daniel Whitcomb,” he said. “Household trust, dependents, registered pets, transfer records, estate filings, and next of kin. Yes, Whitcomb. No, not tomorrow.”
He listened.
Then his eyes moved toward exam room two.
“No,” he said. “They abandoned him in our waiting room with a note. I’m feeling impatient.”
A pause.
“That was the polite version.”
Wick looked at the side door.
“She’ll come back,” he said after he ended the call. No one had asked. Everyone needed to hear it.
Dami looked at him. “You don’t know that.”
Wick’s mouth curved without humor.
“Yes, I do.”
“Because you know where she went?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
“Because she folded the note.”
Lucky, emerging from exam room two, stopped.
Rho frowned. “What?”
Wick’s voice was quiet. “If she meant to disappear for longer, she would have kept it open.”
No one knew what to do with that.
It sounded absurd. It also sounded exactly like him and Kestrel.
At one hour and forty-nine minutes, the man in exam room two chose a temporary name.
Not Adrian. Not the owner’s name for him. Not yet anything permanent.
“Gray,” he said, staring at the coat.
Charity looked up from the chart. “You want us to call you Gray?”
His face tightened. “Just for the file.”
“Okay.”
He watched her write it.
Temporary name: Gray.
He cried when he saw it. Silently. Carefully. Like crying was something he had learned to do without disrupting anyone’s afternoon.
Lucky handed him a tissue box and then looked away.
At two hours and three minutes, the side door opened.
Kestrel came back in.
Her hair was wet from the rain. Her coat was buttoned. Her shoes were muddy. There was a smear of something dark on one cuff that might have been dirt and might not have been.
She carried nothing.
The waiting room went silent.
Wick stood too quickly and had to catch himself on the desk.
Kestrel’s eyes flicked to him. He stopped.
Dami looked her over. “Are you injured?”
“No.”
Lucky’s eyes narrowed. Kestrel looked at him.
“No,” she repeated.
Rho crossed her arms. “Did you do something illegal?”
Kestrel paused. Wick closed his eyes.
Lucky muttered, “That’s not a no.”
Kestrel unbuttoned her coat.
“Where is he?”
“Exam two,” Charity said from the hall. “Temporary name Gray. No acute medical emergency. Panic symptoms. Minor scratch from the pin. Malnutrition likely. We haven’t searched the documents yet.”
“I have.”
Everyone turned. Kestrel reached into her coat pocket for a folded packet of papers. Wick stared at her as she set the packet on the desk.
“Kestrel,” he said.
She ignored him.
“Daniel Whitcomb’s estate transferred all household property to his children. They declined the registered transfer of his Romantic dependent because they didn’t want ongoing liability, maintenance, or public association with ownership. They tried to surrender him to WRU first. WRU refused because the original contract was private resale and the warranty period expired.”
Rho’s face went white with rage. Dami’s expression emptied.
Lucky said, “Where did you get those?”
Kestrel looked at him. No one asked again.
Wick pinched the bridge of his nose. “Please tell me you didn’t break into a law office.”
“I didn’t break into a law office.”
A pause.
Wick opened one eye. “Did you enter a law office?”
“No.”
“Did someone else enter a law office?”
Kestrel looked toward exam room two. “Does it matter?”
“Yes,” Wick and Lucky said at the same time.
Kestrel ignored both of them.
“They left him here because they thought we’d quietly absorb the liability. If we reported abandonment, they could claim compassionate surrender. If we returned him, they could refuse possession. If WRU collected him, they’d deny arranging it. The note was designed to make him our problem without making him their responsibility.”
At first, no one noticed him as an emergency and that was the point.
They found him in the clinic waiting room between the lunch rush and the afternoon wound-care block. He’d been placed carefully in the blue chair by the radiator. A coat lay folded over his lap. His hands rested on top of it. His hair was comb. His shoes were tied. His posture was perfect enough for him to disappear in the busy room. He sat with his knees together and his shoulders relaxed in a way that wasn't relaxation at all. His face was empty and plenty if no one looked too closely.
Romantic training did that sometimes. It made suffering pretty.
There was a note pinned to his coat. A silver safety pin through wool, paper, and the edge of his sweater beneath, because whoever left him had not bothered to check whether they were pinning fabric or skin.
Lucky saw that first and his face went blank.
“Rho.”
Rho looked up from the intake desk. “What?”
He nodded toward the blue chair. When the man didn't move, Rho’s expression changed.
The waiting room went quiet in the strange ripple-pattern of places that knew how to recognize danger late. A mother pulled her child closer. A volunteer stopped stacking cups. Someone near the coffee station whispered, “Was he there before?”
“Yes,” Dami said from the hallway.
Everyone looked at them.
Dami’s voice was flat. “Came in with a family. Four people. Left without him eleven minutes ago.”
Rho’s hands curled around the clipboard. “And you didn’t stop them?”
They shrugged lightly. “Looked like donors.”
That wasn't’t an excuse. It was an indictment.
Lucky crossed the waiting room slowly, stopping several feet from the man in the blue chair.
“Hello,” Lucky said. “My name’s Lucky. You’re at the Bartlett clinic.”
The man blinked. He didn't look up.
Lucky glanced at the note, then back at him.
“Can I remove the paper from your coat?”
The man smiled immediately, beautiful and wrong.
“If it pleases you,” he said lightly, low and breathless in the way every Romantic had been trained.
Rho swore under her breath and Dami stilled.
Lucky’s mouth tightened. “It doesn’t please me. I’m asking if you want it removed.”
The man’s smile trembled. He blinked. The script had failed.
“I don’t understand.”
“Okay,” Lucky said. “Then I won’t.”
The clinic door opened.
“No,” Kestrel said into the phone. “No public comment until counsel sees the draft. If they use the word recovery, send it back.”
She stopped. Her eyes moved once across the room.
Lucky.
Rho.
Dami.
The man in the blue chair.
The note.
She ended the call without saying goodbye.
No one spoke. The man noticed the silence before he noticed her. His posture sharpened, adjusting itself for attention. His chin lowered. His mouth softened. His hands stilled.
Kestrel crossed the room slowly. Hurrying would have made him responsible for her urgency. She stopped in front of him but to the side, not blocking his view of the door.
“What name do you want used?” she asked.
His eyes flicked to her shoes. Then her hands. Then the floor.
“Whatever you prefer.”
“No.”
His lips parted.
Kestrel’s voice stayed level. “That wasn’t a command. It was an answer. We don’t choose that for you.”
Something moved beneath his face. A tiny, trapped thing.
“I don’t know,” he whispered.
“Okay.”
Kestrel looked at the note. The safety pin had gone through the sweater. Not skin, thank God. The paper was folded once, his name written on the outside in neat blue ink.
Not his name.
A name.
Adrian.
“May I remove the note?” she asked.
The man’s hands flexed.
“I was told to keep it visible.”
“By the people who left?”
He swallowed. “Yes.”
“They’re gone.”
His eyes closed for half a second. Pain crossed his face so quickly it almost looked like relief.
“May I remove it?” Kestrel asked again.
He nodded.
She unfastened the safety pin with hands steady enough to make the whole room colder. She removed the paper from his coat. Then she folded the pin closed and set it on the side table instead of keeping it.
Small things mattered. Sharp things mattered. Ownership hid in small, sharp things.
The man watched the safety pin like it might be returned to him as punishment.
Kestrel unfolded the note. Rho stepped closer. Lucky did not. Dami looked at her face.
The note was short. That made it worse.
To whom it may concern,
This is Adrian. He belonged to our father, Daniel Whitcomb, who passed last month. Adrian is trained Romantic and light Domestic. He is well behaved but emotionally dependent and no longer appropriate for our household. We understand your Foundation works with displaced persons and difficult cases.
Please do not contact us regarding return. We are not interested in reclaiming him. His documents are in the envelope in his coat pocket. He has no known medical conditions except occasional hysteria and poor appetite when ignored.
He responds best to firm affection and routine.
Thank you for your understanding.
Kestrel read it once.
Only once.
Her face did not change.
Rho’s eyes filled with furious tears. Lucky looked away toward the clinic windows, jaw tight. Dami’s hands closed at their sides.
The man in the chair smiled up at Kestrel like he was waiting for her to decide whether the note had lowered his value beyond use.
Kestrel folded the paper along its original crease. Then folded it again. Then put it in her coat pocket.
“Lucky,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Medical intake. Not in this room.”
Lucky nodded. “Adrian, can you stand?”
The man’s eyes moved to her.
“You can answer him.”
He swallowed. “Yes.”
“Do you want to?”
That question broke something. His hands lost their perfect stillness
“I don’t know what happens if I don’t.”
Lucky’s voice stayed even. “Then you sit in the chair until you decide, unless there’s a medical emergency.”
The man stared at him.
“I’m getting tea,” Rho said. “I’m going to make tea available. He doesn’t have to drink it.”
The man’s gaze moved between them, terrified by every ordinary adjustment made around his will.
Dami stepped closer to Kestrel. “Where are you going?”
Kestrel did not look at them.
“Out.”
“Kes.”
She turned. Dami stopped. Whatever they saw in her face made them step back.
Wick chose that moment to arrive from the hall, moving carefully on his crutches because the clinic’s elevator was down again and he’d made bad decisions about stairs. He took in the room the way Kestrel had.
The man in the blue chair.
Lucky beside him.
Rho at the counter, shaking with anger.
Dami silent.
Kestrel with nothing in her hands and a note in her pocket.
His face changed.
“Kestrel,” he said softly.
She didn't look at him for long. It was long enough. Not long.
