Recovery

I sleep for fourteen hours straight.

When I wake, the room is dim. Not night. The window shows grey afternoon light filtered through cloud. I'm in a bed. A real bed, with blankets that smell of woodsmoke and laundry soap.

Zoe is asleep in a chair by the door, curled under a blanket of her own. She's still here.

For a long time, I just lie there, watching the ceiling. Waiting for the shame to crash down. Waiting for the memory of what I did to crush me again. The knife at Hugh's throat. The animal panic. The confession.

It doesn't.

The ache is there, dull in my chest. Not drowning me, though. Just there.

Like Hugh said: shared.

Your friend gave up. You didn't. That's what matters.

I don't know if that's true. I'm still breathing. That has to count for something.

Zoe stirs. Opens her eyes. Sees me watching her.

"Hey."

Her voice is sleep-rough. She sits up, rubs her face.

"Hey."

"How long was I out?"

She glances at the window. "Most of a day. Hugh checked on you a couple times. Said to let you sleep."

"He's…"

"Fine." She answers before I can finish. "The cut's shallow. He's fine."

I nod. Don't know what else to say.

"Hungry?" she asks.

I realise I am. Actually hungry, not just eating because I have to. "Yeah."

"Good." She stands, stretches. "I'll get something from the kitchens."

She leaves. The door closes softly behind her.

I'm alone. For the first time in months, it doesn't feel like a threat.

---

The days that follow are quiet.

Hugh gives me space. No pressure. No tasks. Just the occasional check-in. "You hungry, kid?" And a nod when I say yes.

I eat. I sleep. I sit by the window and watch the castle go about its business.

People don't avoid me. They don't stare. They just… carry on. It's unsettling, how normal it feels.

After a week, Hugh finds me in the courtyard. I'm watching a group of kids chase each other around the old fountain, their laughter sharp in the cold air.

"Getting bored yet?" he asks.

I shrug. "Don't know what to do with myself."

"Good." He leans against the wall beside me. "Means you're starting to feel safe."

I'm not sure that's true. I don't argue, though.

"I've got something for you," he says after a moment. "Not a job. Just… something to do."

I look at him.

"It's not exciting. Inventory. Sorting supplies. Useful, though. And quiet." He meets my eyes. "You don't have to say yes."

I think about Liam. About the rifle in my hands, the crowd screaming, the order to fire. About the nine bodies in the snow.

About Hugh bleeding under my knife.

Not asking you to be a soldier. Asking if you want to help.

"Yeah," I say. "Okay."

He nods. Doesn't smile. Just nods.

"Start tomorrow. Warehouse by the east gate. Ask for Marcus."

"Marcus?"

"He's in charge of supplies. Good man. Doesn't talk much."

I remember Marcus in the doorway, the guards behind him. The look on his face when Hugh told him to stand down.

"He doesn't trust me."

"He doesn't trust anyone," Hugh says. "That's why he's good at his job."

I watch the kids a moment longer. Their game has shifted. Now they're pretending to be soldiers, sticks for rifles, hiding behind the frozen fountain.

"Okay," I say again.

Hugh claps me on the shoulder. A simple gesture. No words needed.

He leaves me there. I stay until my fingers go numb.

---

The refugees arrive three days later.

I'm in the warehouse with Marcus, counting sacks of grain. The work is monotonous, methodical. Exactly what I need. No decisions, no pressure. Just numbers.

Marcus grunts at the door. "New group."

I follow him outside.

A dozen people huddle in the courtyard, wrapped in layers against the cold. They look exhausted. Hollow-eyed. The way Zoe and I must have looked when we first arrived.

Hugh is there, talking to their leader. A woman with a scar across her cheek, her voice low and tired. I catch snippets: "…Braes fell last week…" "…raiders from the north…" "…fifteen left, maybe twenty…"

The Braes. I've heard the name before. Another settlement, further east. Smaller than Mugdock. Now gone.

Hugh listens. Nods. His expression doesn't change. The tension in his shoulders does, though. Another group to feed. Another dozen mouths in a castle already stretched thin.

Then I notice her.

She's standing slightly apart from the others, watching the courtyard with clear, observant eyes. Blonde hair pulled back in a practical knot. Blue-grey eyes that seem to take in everything without judging. There's an energy about her that feels out of place here, though. A steady warmth that hasn't been crushed by the frost. She's younger than I expected, mid twenties maybe, and carries herself with a confidence that feels older.

When Hugh finishes with the scarred woman, he moves to her. They speak quietly. I'm too far away to hear. I see him gesture toward the main hall, though. She nods. Says something that makes Hugh pause, then nod slowly.

Who is she?

"Who's that?" I ask Marcus.

He glances over. "Anya. Came with them from the Braes."

"What's her story?"

"Some kind of… therapist." He says the word like it's foreign. "Ran groups for them. Before."

"Before?"

"Before the Braes fell apart." Marcus shrugs. "Hugh thinks she might be useful."

Useful. The word hangs between us.

I watch as Anya turns to the other refugees. Her posture shifts. Not leadership, something warmer. She says something to a man who's shaking, her voice low and steady despite the exhaustion around her, and hands him a flask from her pack. He drinks. Nods. Some of the tension leaves his shoulders.

She's good at that.

Later, Hugh gathers everyone in the main hall. The usual welcome speech. Rules, rations, assignments. Then he nods toward Anya.

"This is Anya. She ran support groups at the Braes. If you're struggling, nightmares, grief, whatever, she's here to help. No judgement. No pressure."

He pauses. Looks at me across the crowd.

"I've also asked Dr. Cameron to make time for anyone who wants to talk one-on-one. Private sessions. Different from the group stuff. Some things are easier to say with one person than ten."

Anya steps forward with a small, genuine smile. Her voice is soft. Carries, though. A slight accent I can't place. Something almost New York, not quite.

"Survival isn't just about food and shelter," she says. "It's about what happens up here." She taps her temple. "I'll be running groups twice a week. Anyone's welcome. No questions asked."

She doesn't look at me. Doesn't single anyone out. I feel seen anyway.

She knows.

After the meeting, I linger by the door. Anya is talking to a woman with two small children clinging to her legs. She crouches to their height, says something that makes the woman smile. A real smile. Genuine.

When she straightens, her eyes meet mine across the hall. Just for a second. Then she turns back to the woman.

I leave before she can look at me again.

---

I don't go to her group. Or to Dr. Cameron.

Not the first week. Not the second.

I hear about both, though. Marcus mentions the group sessions once, offhand. "That therapist woman's sessions. People are talking." Zoe goes. She doesn't tell me. I see it in her face afterwards. Something softer. Less guarded.

Hugh never pushes the group. He does mention Dr. Cameron separately, though. "She's got openings. Different from the group thing. One-on-one." He lets it sit there. No pressure.

I always shake my head. "Not my thing."

He doesn't argue. Just nods.

The third week, something shifts.

I'm in the warehouse, counting nails. My hands are shaking. A leftover tremor from the breakdown, maybe. Or just the cold. I drop a handful. They scatter across the floor, clattering like gunfire.

I freeze. The sound echoes in my head, becomes something else. Becomes the clearing. Becomes nine bodies falling.

Breathe.

I don't know who says it. Me, or someone else. I'm on my knees either way, picking up nails one by one, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

Marcus watches from across the room. Says nothing.

When I've gathered them all, my hands are steady again. The memory isn't, though.

That night, I go to the hall.

The group is smaller than I expected. Maybe ten people. They sit in a loose circle, some on chairs, some on the floor. Anya is in the middle, not leading, just… present. Her expression is warm, attentive.

She sees me in the doorway. Doesn't smile. Doesn't beckon. Just gives a slight nod, like she's been expecting me.

I find a seat by the wall. Far enough away to feel safe. Close enough to listen.

The group is talking about sleep. Or the lack of it. A woman describes waking up screaming, convinced raiders are at the door. A man talks about dreams of his family, frozen and still. Someone else mentions the guilt. Survivor's guilt, they call it.

Anya listens, her expression warm and encouraging. Occasionally asks a question. Not "why do you feel that way?" More like "what helps when that happens?" Practical. Grounded.

When it's my turn, I shake my head. "Just listening."

She doesn't push. Just moves on.

Later, as the group breaks up, she approaches me.

"Jamie, right?"

I nod.

"Thanks for coming." Her tone is warm, inviting. Her accent is stronger up close. Definitely New York, softened around the edges. "You don't have to talk. Being here is enough."

"I'm not…" I don't know how to finish. "I'm not good at this."

"Most people aren't." She smiles, a warm, genuine expression that reaches her eyes. "That's why we do it together."

She doesn't try to therapise me. Doesn't ask about my past, my trauma, my breakdown. Just says, "If you need a quiet place to sit, my door's always open. No pressure."

Then she's gone, talking to someone else.

I stay in the hall after everyone leaves. Sit in the quiet, the dark.

For the first time in months, I feel something besides fear or numbness.

Something shifts. Small. Barely there.

I'll take it.

---

### Dr. Cameron

Another week before I go to Dr. Cameron.

I walk past her door three times. It's a small room off the east corridor, near the medical area. A sign on the door, handwritten. Dr. E. Cameron. No title beyond that. No qualifications listed. In a world like this, the paper doesn't matter. What matters is whether you can sit with someone in the dark and not flinch.

The fourth time, I knock.

She opens the door herself. Older than I expected. Sixty, maybe more. Silver hair cut short. Watching me with steady, unhurried eyes. No smile, no frown. Just attention.

"Jamie."

Not a question. She knows who I am. Of course she does. Word travels in a place like this.

"Yeah."

She steps aside. "Come in."

The room is small. A desk pushed against the wall, two chairs facing each other. No couch. No clinical distance. Just two chairs and a window that looks out on the courtyard.

I sit. She sits across from me. Doesn't take notes. Doesn't have a clipboard. Just rests her hands on her knees and waits.

The silence stretches. I wait for her to fill it. She doesn't.

She's going to make me talk first.

I don't want to be here. I don't know why I knocked. The group was different. A crowd to hide in. This is just me and a stranger in a small room.

"You don't have to talk," she says finally. Her voice is calm. Edinburgh accent, clipped and precise. "You can sit here for the hour if you want. Some people do."

"That seems like a waste."

"It's their hour. They can use it however they need."

I look at the window. Kids in the courtyard again. Different game this time. Something with stones.

"Hugh sent me."

"Hugh mentioned you might come." No judgment either way. Just fact.

I don't know where to start. There's too much. The cabin, the deer, Liam, the rifle, the nine bodies, the knife at Hugh's throat, Zoe's face when she pulled the gun on me. All of it pressing against my ribs.

I don't say any of that.

"I've been having trouble sleeping."

She nods. "What kind of trouble?"

"Can't fall asleep. When I do, I wake up. Dreams."

"About?"

I shake my head. "Different things."

She doesn't push. Just sits there, patient. Like she's got nowhere else to be. Like this hour is mine and she'll wait as long as it takes.

Something about that makes it harder, not easier. There's no script to follow. No right answer she's fishing for. Just space.

"The group sessions," I say. "The therapist who runs them. Anya."

"What about her?"

"She's not... I'm not seeing her for this. She runs the groups. That's different."

"Correct." No surprise. Like she already knew this. "I handle individual sessions. Anya handles the groups. Separate roles."

"I don't want it getting mixed up."

"It won't."

Simple. Direct. I believe her.

We sit for a while longer. I don't tell her about Liam. I don't tell her about the nine bodies or the knife. I tell her about the sleep. About the way sounds in the corridor make my chest tight. About the feeling that something's behind me when I'm in open spaces.

She listens. Occasionally asks a question. Not "how does that make you feel?" More like "when that happens, what do you do?" Practical. Grounded. Same approach as the group, more focused.

At the end, she stands.

"Same time next week?"

I hesitate.

"You don't have to decide now. Think about it."

I think about it on the walk back to my room. The corridor sounds still make me flinch. The open courtyard still makes my skin crawl.

I knock on her door the next week. Same time.