“Then we don’t have time.”
They turned away.
Again, dismissed.
Again, invisible.
Mustafa’s shoulders sank.
Then he saw a small clinic between two buildings, its sign flickering under dim light.
He pushed the door open.
A bell rang softly.
Inside, the air smelled of antiseptic. A nurse sat behind a small desk, tired but alert. She looked up and her eyes widened at the sight of him—soaked, trembling, covered in mud.
“What happened to you?” she asked.
Mustafa stepped forward, barely able to stand.
“There’s a man,” he said breathlessly. “In the forest. They buried him. He’s still alive.”
The nurse watched him carefully.
Her name was Zainab.
She had heard desperate stories before. Many were confused, some invented. But something about this boy was different.
His eyes were not lying.
They were terrified.
“Slow down,” she said gently. “Start again.”
“They’re going to kill him,” Mustafa said, voice breaking. “Please, you have to help me.”
Zainab studied him.
If he was lying, she would lose only time.
If he was telling the truth, someone would lose his life.
She grabbed her bag, a flashlight, and her keys.
“Show me.”
Mustafa stared at her.
“You believe me?”
“Take me there,” she said firmly. “Now.”
For a second, he seemed to forget how to move.
Then hope returned to his face.
“Yes. I know the way.”
Together, they stepped back into the night.
The road to the forest felt longer than before. Every step carried fear, but now Mustafa was not alone.
“Are you sure you can find the place?” Zainab asked.
“I remember,” he said. “A broken tree. A clearing. A lantern.”
At the forest edge, the air grew colder. The city sounds disappeared behind them. They moved carefully through the trees, following Mustafa’s memory—broken branches, a fallen log, the angle of the path.
Then Mustafa stopped.
“There,” he whispered.
Through the trees, a faint light flickered.
The lantern.
They approached slowly.
The clearing came into view.
The men were gone.
But the earth was disturbed.
Fresh.
Wet.
Zainab dropped to her knees.
“Help me.”
Mustafa began digging with his bare hands. The soil was heavy with rain. Panic rose in him.
“Please,” he whispered. “Please still be alive.”
Zainab’s hand struck something solid.
Fabric.
Dark. Expensive.
“He’s here,” she said.
They dug faster, clearing mud from a shoulder, an arm, a face.
Chief Oladipo Bologan.
His eyes were closed. His skin was pale.
For one terrifying moment, he did not move.
“No,” Mustafa whispered. “No, no, no.”
Zainab pressed her fingers to his neck.
Silence.
Then—
A pulse.
Faint.
Weak.
But there.
“He’s alive,” she said quickly. “Barely, but alive.”
Together they pulled him from the earth. His body collapsed onto the wet ground, chest rising only slightly.
“We need to get him out now,” Zainab said.
Then a branch snapped nearby.
Both froze.
Mustafa’s heart dropped.
“They came back,” he whispered.
Zainab lifted Chief Oladipo’s arm over her shoulder.
“Move.”
They dragged him through the forest, every step heavy, every sound terrifying. Footsteps grew behind them. Closer. Faster.
“Don’t look back,” Zainab ordered.
Mustafa obeyed.
The trees thinned.
The road appeared.
They stumbled out, dragging Chief Oladipo with them.
