Sam
I'm wrapped in Knox's jacket—too big, smelling like leather and motor oil and safety—and I can't stop watching.
The girls.
They're being led out of the warehouse slowly, carefully. Officers speak to them in low, gentle voices. Paramedics check them for injuries, their movements deliberate and non-threatening. Social workers hover nearby with blankets and bottles of water, offering support that feels both necessary and impossibly inadequate.
Some of the girls are crying. Loud, gasping sobs that echo across the concrete.
Some are silent, their faces blank, their eyes staring at nothing.
Some are shaking so hard they can barely walk.
I count them as they pass.
One. Two. Three.
A girl with dark hair and a torn dress, her arms wrapped around herself.
Four. Five.
Two younger girls
