I bit my bottom lip and tried not to cry. “You are the best mother I could ever want.”

“No,” she said softly, “but I’ll try harder to be.”

The kitchen door slammed shut and I looked up to see two sets of grim faces. “Riley,” my father said. “Forgive my interruption, but we need to make a decision and I think you should be involved.”

1 month after rescue

When Brett was born, he was the first of two. Two hearts, two sets of chubby hands, two kicking and screaming sets of skin that burst into the world as the two Betschart heirs — impossible babies born to a barren mother, an early miracle of in vitro before the practice was common. They spent the first ten months of their lives in a space no bigger than a basketball. And they came out inseparable. The day I met Brett, his heart was already taken. He’d given it to a six year old girl who let his GI Joes kidnap her Barbies. A fifteen-year-old who’d sacrificed her best friend to his heartbreaking ways. An eighteen-year-old high school senior who had begged him to stay local then sent him care packages every other weekend when he went to Duke. A girl who, at thirty years old, disappeared while at a friend’s bachelorette party in Cancun. A girl whose remains were found two years later in the Nevada desert.

I stood at her grave and stared down at the headstone of Elyse Marine Betschart. Dug my toes against the leather of my sandals and smelled fresh-cut grass. Wondered if she smelled freedom before she died. If it was in an attempt to escape, or if she died in a cell. Wondered, in her days of pain, if she, like me, held on to thoughts of Brett.

“Let’s go.” Brett’s fingers threaded through my own. His gentle pull brought my forehead to his lips. I closed my eyes and appreciated the moment, the tickle of my hair against my throat, the smell of him when he let go of my hand and wrapped his arms around my torso, pulled me to his chest. We stood there for a moment, the beat of his heart against my ear, the fuzz of his sweater the softest thing against my cheek I could ever imagine. I had worried, some sleepless nights in that cell, that I’d cringe from his touch. That the experiences I’d undergone would scar my psyche in ways unrecoverable. That one day I’d escape, yet always be imprisoned by that hell. My fear had lifted the first time Brett had touched me. Kissed me. Cried my name while cradling me in his arms. He was nothing like that man. His touch nothing like his bite. His words a galaxy away, his love a strength that would protect me until I died.

“Okay,” I said, and let him lead me to the car.

3 months after rescue

“Good morning Ms. Johnson.”

“Good morning.”

“Welcome to Fort Lauderdale.”

“Thank you.” I crossed my legs, then remembered some article about it causing varicose veins, and uncrossed them. Varicose veins. Why the hell was I thinking about that? I smoothed a crease on my new pants. They were a size 6. I’d never worn a size 6; I’d always been more in the 12 or 14 range. But nine months of a slave’s diet put me into this territory, into this body. A body I would have once killed to have and now wanted nothing to do with. I missed my curves. So did Brett. He was trying to feed me at every opportunity, yet nothing was happening. It was like my body was resistant, not letting me move past this moment in time just yet.

“Are you settled in?”

I shrugged. Looked up into the woman’s eyes. “You can call me Riley.”

She smiled. “Okay. Riley. You can call me Nicole.”

I needed my name. Needed to hear it as much as possible. I had the irrational desire to become a teenybopper and plaster it on every surface. This morning I wrote it onto the tag of all my new clothes, like I did when I was eleven and went away to camp. Then I went down to breakfast, the scratch of my nametag comforting on my neck. I told Brett, over eggs and potatoes, that I wanted a tattoo. The script of my name along the inside of my wrist. So I could look down at any moment and see it. So that, if I ever got taken again, I could hold up my hand and stare into his face and say “Look! I am not Kitten. I am Riley!” And never again would I wonder. And neither would anyone else.

“Are you settled in?”

She worked for Brett—this doctor. Worked for the organization that he had secretly run since Elyse died. Brett asked me to meet with her and to give him my opinion. To see if I thought she was effective and a good fit for the rescued slaves. But I knew why I was really here. And I understood that. I thought that, despite the face I showed Brett and my parents, I needed this. I reached for the glass of water on the side table. Took a sip before answering her.

“Yes, I think so. Fort Lauderdale is very different than Quincy. It’s been … an adjustment. But I’m not sure if I’m adjusting more to being back in the real world, or if it’s adjusting to the move.”

“Why did you move so quickly? You could have stayed in Quincy longer.”

I shook my head. “I … I couldn’t go back to work when I got back. I just couldn’t. Couldn’t sit across from someone and discuss a savings account when I had just been … I tried to. But it all seemed so trivial. And without work … I just had no purpose, was just there, taking up space. And Brett was here, helping…” I straightened my shoulders. “I think it’s healing. To help with the girls. It has meaning. I understand how it’s helped him to heal from Elyse. And I think it will help me heal. Does that make sense?”

She leaned forward and gripped my hand. “Absolutely.” She smiled sadly. “And I absolutely understand it.”