Traffick

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This book is dedicated to all those committed to helping victims of trafficking—child or adult, sex or labor—become survivors.

Special thanks to those who shared their stories with me, opening up so freely about painful situations. You've chosen to remain anonymous, and I've pledged to respect your privacy. Here's to your future as survivors. Walk forward proudly.

The courage to leap

the brink, free-fall

beyond the precipice,

hurtle toward

the abyss,

end the pain. Mine.

Mom's. Oh, she'd feel

the initial sting, cry

for a day or two, but it

would be

short-lived, a quick

stab of grief. Finite.

A satin-lined coffin

and cool, deep hole are

preferable to

walking a treadmill

over a carpet of coals,

enduring the blistering,

skin-cracking flames of

this living hell.

A slow swim toward the light, breaking

the surface to crawl back onto the beach,

here in the land of the living. It seems

like a worthy goal. So why do I wish

I'd died instead? Should that be the first

thought to pop into my head?

I open my eyes. Snap them shut again.

I've been treading dark water for . . .

I have no idea how long. I test the light

again, and the fluorescent glare against

white walls makes me bury my head

in the pillow. Bleach stink assaults me

immediately, fights the antiseptic smell

that confirms I'm in a hospital. Hospital, yes.

That information sinks through the fog

licking inside my head, syncs with

the onslaught of noises. Monitors

beeping. Ventilators whooshing. And

somewhere, there's a game show on

TV. Tubes jut from my arms, and some

sort of brace wraps my midsection, limiting

movement, but I manage to swivel my head

toward the rhythmic snore marking time

very near my right elbow. Mom's dozing

on a gray plastic chair beside the bed.

Her voice floats from memory.
Come back

to me, Cody boy. Don't you dare leave me too.

And I remember her hands, oh God,

soft as rose petals, and fragranced

the same way, as she stroked my face

over and over, urging,
Please, son.

We'll make it through this. We always

make it through. But I can't do it alone.

I want to help her make it through.

I want to go back to sleep. Except

I've finally accomplished what she's been

waiting for—resurrection. “Mo-mom?”

I have to force the word through

a thick soup of phlegm and it exits

my mouth a hoarse whisper. She doesn't

stir until I clear my throat.
Cody . . . ,

she mumbles, and her eyes stutter open

to find my own staring at her.
Cody?

Are you really here?
She jerks upright.

Oh my God!
She jumps to her feet,

rushes bedside, and grabs my hand.

Too hard. A wicked buzz, like a static

shock, zaps the base of my skull.

Almost a growl, leaks from my lips.

Mom drops my hand like she's the one

getting shocked, backs away like maybe

I'm contagious.
I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

Did I hurt you? Hold on. I'll get

a nurse.
She pounds the call button.

“It's okay. I'm okay.” Except I'm not

sure I am. A shimmer of pain, muted

but present, radiates from my neck.

It spreads across my shoulders,

down into my chest, swelling to fill

the space defined by my rib cage,

finally settling in my belly. It stops

there, having traveled pretty much

everywhere. Everywhere, except . . .

Anywhere below my waist. Weird.

What the hell? I see Mom watching,

assessing me in some alien way.

With great effort, I reach down,

poke my right leg. Nothing. Left?

Numb. “What's wrong with me, Mom?”

My voice slurs. My brain is slow.

I'm drugged, yeah, that's it. A phrase

comes to mind: morphine cocktail.

I'll have another, please, bartender.

That cracks me up, and I laugh like

a madman. Mom looks terrified.

“Don't worry, Mom. I'm just loaded,

you know? They gave me some pretty

good drugs.” She nods agreement, but

her expression argues there's more.

Where's that nurse? I'll be right back.

She hustles off, calling for someone

to come right away. Wonder how long

I've been here, hooked up to these

machines. A day? Two? A week?

Logic argues it's probably been

a few days at least, or Mom wouldn't

have been so worried that I wasn't going

to wake up again. And now, duh, it hits

me that must be a big part of the reason

my legs feel so weird. They're still asleep.

Try, try again. I pinch my right thigh.

Hard. Pinch my left thigh. Harder.

Zip. Nada. Man, this is excellent dope.

Bet old Vince would go for this shit.

Vince. Wait. There's something about Vince.

I need to remember. I close my eyes. . . .

in time to . . .

Vince's apartment.

A poker game.

I remember that and . . .

winning for once.

Did I win?

Yeah, that's right.

Six hundred . . . no,

six hundred and fifty bucks.

Played it smart.

Left the table still ahead,

like smart gamblers do.

Ronnie.

Oh, Ronnie, Jesus,

I'm sorry. I never meant

to hurt you.

That day, after work

(work?), I was going

to see Ronnie.

She wasn't mad.

I thought she'd be mad.

Quick stop at the bank.

Deposited the cash,

half in my account,

half in Mom's

before . . . my date?

I dated Ronnie.

It wasn't a date,

it was a three-way meet.

Oh shit, no. Misty . . .

The thought of her

makes me sad.

Sad? Why? Misty.

Sweet Jesus.

Ambulances. Stretchers.

Misty, but where is her face?

Under the sheet.

Dead.

Misty is dead.

Before that, what?

Misty in bed

with some squeaky guy

with a teeny dick

telling me to hurry.

Time is money.

Time.

Tick.

Bam.

Noise at my back.

Splintering wood.

A fist against my kidneys.

Down I went.

Crack-crack-crack.

The report of a gun.

Small. Sharp. Deadly.

You fucking whore.

You promised no more.

Chris. Misty's boyfriend.

But she didn't answer.

And you . . .

Addressed to me,

right before

his boots found my ribs.

Boom. Boom.

He took out two

just like that.

And then,
snap!

Electric. Brilliant

sizzling white heat.

A shattering

splintering of bone

in my back.

My back.

I felt it go.

He shot me in the spine.

Chris.

Shot.

Me.

He was at Vince's.

I taunted him.

He was crazy mean

and I knew that.

Why take chances?

My fault.

My fault Misty is dead.

My fault I'm lying here.

My fault that I can't feel . . .

No! Screw that!

I'm okay. I'm fine.

Just a little numb.

I'm just fucked up.

It's the killer dope.

Killer . . .

Tears spill from my eyes, track

my face. Spontaneously, one word

falls from my mouth, in quick

repetition. “No. No. No. No. No.”

I'm still babbling when Mom

returns with a nurse the approximate

size of a large gorilla.
Take it easy,

she soothes.
I've sent for Dr. Harrison.

She'll be here as soon as she can.

I'm sure you have questions and

she can answer them better than I.

Meanwhile, how's the pain?

I dissolve into hysterical laughter.

Both Mom and Nurse Gorilla look

ready to flee. “Can't feel a thing. Hey . . .”

I reach down to the approximate level

of my pecker. “Am I wearing a diaper

or what? How am I pissing?”

I pat, pat, pat. “Nope. No diaper. Do

I still have a dick? 'Cause I for sure

can't feel it if I do.” Jesus. H. Christ.

Laughter segues to sobs. Mom shifts

into Mommy mode, rushes to my side.

It's going to be okay, Cody. I promise.

She starts to reach for me. Remembers

what happened last time, withdraws

her hands. Her soft, rose-petal hands.

Nursilla steers Mom back into the chair,

and when she moves closer, her badge

tells me her name is Barbara.
Listen.

You have experienced major trauma.

Do you remember what happened?

At my nod, she continues.
I'd prefer

Dr. Harrison explain in more depth,

but I can tell you that you have a spinal

cord injury. The good news is it's in

your lower thoracic region, which

is why you've got the use of your upper

extremities and can breathe on your own.

Barbara lets that sink in. Spinal cord

injury. Lower thoracic region.

I have no clue what any of that means.

But, hey, I can breathe on my own,

and should that become difficult

I can still use my hands to pick my nose.

I'm about to ask what the bad news

is when two people bustle into

the room. The nurse introduces us.

Dr. Harrison, apparently my neurosurgeon,

is a tall, pretty woman, with toffee-colored

skin and striking blue-green eyes

that seem determined to look anywhere

but straight at me. Not a good sign.

The dude, who's Hispanic, stands a good four

inches shorter, but man, is he buff.

Federico will oversee your PT,
explains

Barbara. When I look confused,

Federico clarifies,
That's physical

therapy.
He extends a hand.
Awesome