The transition from the cold, metallic escape pod to the sweltering heat of Dar es Salaam felt like stepping into an oven.
We had landed in the middle of the night, picked up by a nondescript fishing boat that Razack had arranged through his remaining contacts. Now, as the sun began to bleed over the horizon, painting the Indian Ocean in shades of bruised orange and gold, I stood on the balcony of a dusty safe house in Kigamboni.
I looked at my hands. They were no longer the soft, manicured hands of Isaac Moretti’s bride. The nails were broken, the skin etched with small scars from the escape. But for the first time, they felt like my hands.
"The children are asleep," Razack said, stepping out onto the balcony behind me. He looked exhausted, his shirt stained with dried salt and grease,
