Chapter 1: The Women No One Saved

It sounds crazy, even to me. Saving broken women? Out here, that’s the kind of story you keep to yourself. But it’s true, whether or not anyone would believe me. On dry desert nights, when the wind rattles the window screens and dust creeps under the door, I wonder if I really saved them—or if maybe, they saved me first.

One of them had been battered by everyone at the army base—her body bruised, her mind teetering between laughter and tears, driven to the brink.

You could hear it in the way people talked about her, the way they wouldn’t meet her eyes or pretended she wasn’t there at all. Even here, where toughness is currency, there’s a line you’re not supposed to cross. She’d been shoved over it, and to most folks, there wasn’t much left of her. Still, I remember her laughter at night, wild and sharp as a coyote’s cry.

The other was left crippled and alone in a church, her legs ruined, her temper so fierce everyone avoided her.

Whispers from the nuns, warnings from townsfolk—no one wanted to deal with the lady in the wheelchair. The building was old, doors sticking in the summer heat, and when she got mad, her voice carried down every dusty hallway. Still, even as everyone tiptoed around her, her twisted strength drew people in whether they liked it or not.

Everyone said they should have died long ago.

Some even said it to their faces. That tells you what kind of place this is. Weakness isn’t tolerated here. You’re supposed to go quietly. But I remember. I remembered, even when it hurt.

They were once prodigies—heroes who ruined their knees kneeling for loyal public servants, who stood alone against thousands of enemies.

No one believed that now. Not when all they saw were scars, broken bones, and haunted eyes. But legends linger, especially in the corners of America history tries to forget.

1

The first time I saw Hannah Lark was at the border, where dry winds whipped across the dusty plains.

I was still new enough to the base that the wind stung my cheeks every time I left the barracks. The place always smelled like dust, diesel, and old sweat—familiar, but never home. The land stretched out flat as a skillet, nothing to break it but a distant fence line and clusters of army-green tents. Somewhere, a cicada buzzed in the scrub, and the sun baked the gravel until it shimmered.

Soldiers in camo came and went, trading crude jokes as they headed for the barracks.

That swagger comes with surviving out here, and their jokes—loud, sharp, sometimes mean—were part of the armor. It’s the kind of banter you learn to ignore if you don’t want trouble.

"Boys, we’re in luck. I heard HQ sent us a few more criminal women. Man, I swear, city girls are a whole different breed. Their skin’s so soft it’s like silk."

The guy talking strutted like being from Albuquerque made him a big deal. The others snickered, elbowing each other, boots grinding on the gravel.

"Right? Just hope it’s not like Hannah Lark. She’s cold as ice, just lies there—like a corpse."

"Hahaha, smack her around a little, she’ll move."

Their laughter was too loud—trying to cover up what they were really saying. I kept my head down, hands buried in my pockets, wishing I was somewhere else. My ears burned, and I focused on the grit grinding in my boots, trying to disappear.

As they reached the tent, a dull thud—fists and boots on flesh—came from inside, along with a man’s curses: "You’re nothing but a whore, used up by everyone, and you still dare show attitude!"

The words cracked out into the open air, sharp as a slap. I stopped, suddenly a kid again, eavesdropping on a fight I wasn’t supposed to hear.

"Hahahahaha—"

A shrill burst of laughter ripped through the thin canvas, stabbing at my ears.

It was a horrible sound, the kind that makes your teeth ache. My hands were shaking, so I clenched them tighter.

The two guards outside couldn’t take it anymore. With a swish, they yanked the flap aside and cursed, "Is this woman insane?"

I followed behind them. I’d seen ugly things before, but when I saw what was inside, my stomach twisted in shock. For a split second, I remembered watching her lead parades on TV, medals catching the sunlight. Now, she looked so small I almost didn’t recognize her.

On the battered cot, her torn clothes barely covered her. The hands that once held a rifle were tied, her skin a patchwork of bruises. The sheets beneath her were stained with blood.

There was no dignity—she’d been treated like an animal.

I had to look away, bile rising in my throat. The overhead bulb flickered, buzzing faintly—a sound I’d never forget. Even the roughest men in the room looked uneasy for a heartbeat.

A few months ago, no one would have believed this.

It was like a ghost story told around a campfire—unbelievable, until you’re standing in the middle of it. The desert strips people down to the bone.

The female commander who once stood alone against thousands had ended up like this.

I remembered the stories my dad told about old war heroes at the border. Hannah Lark’s name always sounded bigger than life, like a movie character. Seeing her here, I almost didn’t believe it was the same person.

"Hahahaha—"

She really had lost her mind, still laughing.

But after the laughter came sobs, her eyes bloodshot, as if she could cry tears of blood.

The sound twisted something inside me. I’ve heard plenty of crying, but this was different—raw, like her soul was coming apart.

The man beside her had a chunk bitten out of his shoulder, blood running down, face twisted with rage.

He looked up, his gaze meeting mine for a second.

He barked, "Kid, get over here and patch me up!"

I tore my eyes from Hannah Lark and replied, "Yes, sir."

I tried to keep my voice steady, the way my dad taught me when I first learned to dress a wound in our kitchen, using an old towel and a bottle of whiskey.