Layla
As the weeks passed, the clinic began to take shape. We had rooms and cots. Bandages and antiseptic. Food, water, shelter. So much to offer, but the one thing we lacked were patients.
“How is anybody supposed to find out about this?” Vanessa asked from the kitchen island, where she sat behind a half-empty bottle of wine. “It’s not like we can exactly start posting on i********: about it.”
“Right.” I flopped down on the barstool beside her, a plate of pasta in each hand. It wasn’t anything fancy today; we’d worked a long day at the clinic following a long day at the hospital.
I didn’t mind long days—when I was helping someone. But Vanessa was right. I couldn’t exactly go around posting fliers or advertising for this safehouse—without giving its location away to the very people it
