She Awakens
The first thing she felt was warmth. Not the biting, burning kind that came from being too cold for too long, but a steady, gentle heat that wrapped around her like a blanket. The second thing was sound — a soft, rhythmic beeping, steady as a heartbeat. Then came the voices. Low. Careful. Familiar, so she couldn’t place it.
Her eyelids fluttered, heavy as stone. The world swam into view in pieces — a ceiling light, blurred at the edges; a curtain half‑drawn; a figure sitting beside her, still as a shadow.
Marianne leaned forward the moment she saw movement. “Hey,” she whispered. “You’re safe. You’re in Saskatoon. A hospital. No one can hurt you here.”
The girl blinked, her gaze unfocused, drifting. Her throat worked, but no sound came out. She swallowed, wincing at the dryness.
A nurse appeared with a cup and a straw. “Just a sip,” she murmured. “Slow.”
The girl obeyed; the water shocking in its clarity. She coughed once, then settled.
Marianne waited until the nurse stepped back. “Do you know where you are?”
A small shake of the head.
“That’s okay,” Marianne said. “You’re safe. That’s what matters.”
The girl’s eyes moved to her face, studying her, searching for something — threat, maybe. Or truth.
Marianne kept her hands visible, resting on her knees. "My name is Marianne. I found you in the snow and I brought you here.”
The girl’s lips parted. A whisper scraped out, barely audible. “Maskwa…”
Marianne nodded. “You said that before. Is that your name?”
The girl hesitated — a long, trembling pause — then shook her head.
A soft knock sounded at the door. Dr. Nathan Cardinal stepped in, his presence calm and grounding. “Good morning,” he whispered. “You’re waking up. That’s an excellent sign.”
The girl’s eyes flicked to him, wary but not panicked.
“I’m Dr. Cardinal,” he continued. “I’m taking care of you. You’re safe here. No one knows you’re in Saskatoon except the people in this room.”
Her breathing eased a little.
Marianne leaned forward again. “Can you tell us your name?”
The girl’s fingers curled weakly against the blanket. Her lips trembled. For a moment, it seemed she might retreat again, sink back into the fog. Then she whispered, voice thin but clear: “Naomi… Maskwa.”
Marianne’s breath caught. Dr. Cardinal nodded slowly, respectfully.
“Thank you,” Marianne whispered. “That’s very brave.”
Naomi blinked hard, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. “I… I want to go home.”
“I know,” Marianne said. “We’re going to help you do that. But first… can you tell us something? Only if you feel safe.”
Naomi’s gaze drifted to the window, to the faint morning light creeping in. Her voice was barely a thread. “They took me… last winter.”
Marianne’s chest tightened. “Last winter?”
Naomi nodded. “From the road. I was walking to my auntie’s. A truck stopped. I thought… I thought they needed help.”
Her breath hitched. Dr. Cardinal stepped closer, his tone gentle. “You don’t have to tell us everything today.”
But Naomi shook her head. “I… I need to.”
Marianne waited, silent, steady.
“They said they’d take me home,” Naomi whispered. “But they didn’t. They drove past my turn. Past everything. I tried to get out. They locked the doors.”
Her hands trembled beneath the blanket.
“I didn’t see outside again. Not for a long time.”
Marianne swallowed. “And the word you said — Maskwa. Why that?”
Naomi blinked slowly, tears slipping free. “It’s… my kokum’s name. She told me... if I were ever lost... to say her name. Someone would help.”
Marianne’s throat tightened. “She was right.”
Naomi looked at her then — really looked — and something in her expression softened, a fragile trust forming at the edges.
Dr. Cardinal stepped back, giving them space. "That's enough for today," he said kindly. “You’re safe. You can rest now.”
Naomi nodded, exhaustion pulling at her again. Her eyes drifted closed, but this time, it wasn’t fear dragging her under. It was safety.
Marianne stayed beside her until her breathing evened out, the morning light warming the room. For the first time since finding her in the snow, Marianne allowed herself to believe it: The girl had a name. A story. A family waiting. And she was finally on her way home.