Samantha let out a desperate, soft little cry. Her eyes seemed bright in the lamplight, shimmering with a film of mist. “What does he look like?” she said, her voice hoarse, barely even a croak.

At this, Ilse felt a flash of pity. She softly said, “It isn’t the same guy from when you were a kid, Sam. I’m so sorry. It’s someone else. Just a creep. Young guy. In his twenties. He had a record and everything.”

“Oh…” Sam said, softly. Her hands seemed to tighten around her legs.

“You can go home if you’d like. Or stay, either way. If you want, I could drive you.”

Samantha shifted some more, the thick bandages along her neck standing out over the collar of her borrowed pajamas. “I… it wasn’t him?”

“No, too young. I’m sorry, Sam. You’re safe now. He’s no longer going to hurt you. No one is. You’re safe.”

“You’re sure? Did he have an older guy he was working with? Maybe… maybe someone with a red truck?” She spoke hopefully, a soft little desperate lilt to her tone.

Ilse shook her head. “No, sorry. Just the one guy. It’s not him. You’re safe now, Sam.”

“Can—can I stay here? Just for the night?”

“Of course.” Even as she said it, Ilse could feel another jolt of sympathy. She watched where Sam hunched, trembling, arms wrapped around her legs. She felt a flicker of regret that Sam’s old abductor hadn’t been caught. He was still out there, still a source of fear.

And Sam was here, still awake, still paranoid. She didn’t look relieved at the news, though. If anything, she seemed even more nervous than at the start of the night. She was worrying at her lip, gnawing so hard that it looked like she might draw blood if she wasn’t careful.

Ilse felt a flash of frustration. Not at Sam. But at the memories. At the trauma so deeply set that she was still stuck, still terrified.

“What if it’s not the right guy?” Sam said, quietly. “Are they sure? How sure? It’s not the right guy, Dr. Beck! It’s not! Someone’s out there, trying to find me. They’re after me. I know it! I know it, Dr. Beck!”

Ilse hurried over, her feet padding against the floorboards. She reached the couch, and then, with gentle, easy motions she settled on the couch, reaching out and patting the blanket next to Sam’s foot, careful not to actually make physical contact. One had to be delicate in such situations. Touch was a stress-regulator in development, but with trauma, the effect could be reversed into something more damaging.

“It’s the right guy, Sam,” Ilse said. “You’re safe now.”

“I don’t know, Dr. Beck… I don’t know. I can… I can feel it. Do you know what I mean? I can feel it.”

Ilse’s own memories flashed. In her mind’s eye she glimpsed two glaring, mismatched eyes. She did know what Sam meant. Knew it all too well, too deeply. She shivered and shook her head. Sam’s trauma was so deep-set, so ingrained in her identity that she might never move past it. She would always think her tormentor was still out there. She would always be looking over her shoulder…