St. Agnes Hospital–Saskatoon, Saskatchewan
The automatic doors hissed open as Marianne stepped into St. Agnes Hospital in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan; the blast of warm, over‑sterilized air hit her like a wall. The city was hours north of the border — far enough that the drive felt unreal, a blur of snow and highway lights — but that distance was intentional. Necessary. A buffer between the girl and the people who had hurt her.
The hospital was quiet at this hour — the quiet that felt suspended, like the building was holding its breath. She checked in at the desk, flashed her badge, and a guard waved her through without question. Word had already spread: a girl found in the snow, barely alive, no ID, no family yet notified. A cross‑border case. High‑risk. Sensitive.
A nurse met her halfway down the hall. Young, tired, but steady. “You’re the officer who brought her in?”
Marianne nodded. “How is she?”
“Alive,” the nurse said, and the relief in her voice was real. “She’s hypothermic, severely dehydrated, and malnourished. But she’s responding to warming protocols. Vitals are stabilizing.”
Marianne exhaled slowly. “Can I see her?”
The nurse hesitated only a moment. “She’s still unconscious. But yes. Just… be gentle. She’s been through hell.”
Marianne followed her to a small room tucked at the end of the pediatric wing. Dim lights illuminated the room. Machines hummed softly. A heated blanket cocooned the girl’s slight frame, IV lines snaking from her arms. She had her hair gently brushed back from her face, revealing bruises along her jaw and temple. She looked impossibly young like this.
But Marianne knew better now. Fourteen. Maybe fifteen. A teenager starved down to the size of a child.
Marianne stepped closer, her boots whispering against the tile. The girl’s breathing was shallow but steady. Her fingers twitched once beneath the blanket, as if reaching for something that wasn’t there. Or someone. Marianne’s throat tightened.
The nurse whispered. “Did she say anything to you? Before she went under?”
“One word,” Marianne murmured. “Maskwa.”
The nurse’s brows lifted. “Cree?”
“Yes.”
The nurse nodded slowly. “We’ll make sure she has a trauma‑informed team. And when she wakes up, she’ll need someone familiar.”
Marianne understood the unspoken request. She pulled a chair to the bedside and sat. Not touching — not yet — but close enough that if the girl reached out again, she wouldn’t find empty air.
For a long moment, Marianne simply watched her breath. The rise and fall. The fragile persistence of it. Barely audible, she whispered, "You're safe. You did everything right. You survived.”
A soft knock sounded at the door. A doctor stepped in — mid‑forties, Indigenous, calm in a way that came from years of seeing the worst and choosing to stay, anyway.
“I’m Dr. Nathan Cardinal,” he whispered. “I’ll be overseeing her care tonight.”
Marianne stood. “Thank you.”
He glanced at the chart, then at the girl. “She’s strong. Stronger than she should be, given what she’s endured.”
Marianne nodded. “She escaped on her own.”
“That tracks,” Dr. Cardinal said. “Kids like her… they don’t give up. Even when everything in their body tells them to.”
He paused, then added, “When she wakes, she may not speak right away. Or she may say something that makes little sense. Let her set the pace.”
“I will.”
Dr. Cardinal gave a small nod and stepped out, leaving the room quiet again.
Marianne sat back down. Outside, Saskatoon moved on — streetcars, late‑night students, the hum of a city that did not know what had happened in the snow miles away. Paperwork, warrants, politics, the Ridge looming like a shadow on the horizon.
But here, in this small room, everything narrowed to one truth: a girl with a name like a story had survived something monstrous. And she wasn’t alone anymore.