Two men in dark, heavy coats got out of the SUV and walked quickly into the lobby.

“They’re inside,” I whispered, my heart hammering against my ribs.

“But we are out,” he said. “Where are we taking her?”

“An old physical therapy clinic in upstate New York,” I said. “It’s closed for renovations, but the owner is a friend. It has medical beds and a generator.”

The drive up the Hudson took over an hour.

The city lights faded into dark woods and wet pavement.

Eleanor slept in the backseat, her breathing even and slow.

We reached the clinic, a low concrete building hidden behind a row of overgrown pines.

The key was where my friend said it would be, under a fake stone by the side door.

Alexander carried Eleanor inside.

She was light, her body weakened by years of chronic illness.

We settled her into a clean, warm room with an adjustable bed.

Once she was comfortable, I hooked up her portable oxygen concentrator and plugged it into the wall.

“She is safe here for now,” Alexander said, leaning against the doorframe of the dark room.