Free Ransomed Dreams by Sally John Page A

took over. Again. She couldn’t remember saying a word. She couldn’t remember walking inside the airport. She only remembered breakfast moving upward and him steering her toward a restroom door.
    She looked in the mirror now, holding a paper towel against her mouth. The eyes that gazed back were scarcely recognizable. Shot through with red, irises dark and blending with pupils, they belonged to a stranger.
    No, not a stranger. Rather to a woman ripped from her cocoon in a safety zone called Topala.
    * * *
    Sheridan found Luke not far from the restroom, his knapsack and her luggage at his feet. Weaving her way through scurrying throngs, she approached him.
    “Luke, I can’t do this.”
    “I know.”
    Sheridan blinked back tears that had begun stinging in the restroom.
    “I’ll do it for you.”
    She shook her head. Good grief, that was the last thing she needed. “I have to go back.”
    “To what?”
    “My cocoon.” The more she thought about the image, the more she liked it. Soft, warm, cozy. Safe. No man to remind her how lonely she was. “My Topala cocoon.”
    “It’s not there anymore.”
    His words hit her like a physical blow to her chest. “I don’t like you.”
    “Understood. But, Sheridan, the hardest part is over. It really is.” He cocked his head, his forehead creased. “Think of what you’ve just accomplished. After all these months hidden away, you’ve taken your first step back into a crowded city, back into the real world. You’re over the big hump. The next step will be a breeze. LAX? Not a problem. Now, it’s time to go.”
    In one swift motion he picked up his knapsack, slung it over a shoulder, and scooped her bag into his hand. He touched her elbow, pointed to a sign, and began to walk, long strides that moved him quickly away from her.
    The whole scene reeked of déjà vu. . . .
    * * *
    It was ten days or so after the shooting. Sheridan and Luke were at the airport in Miami, in some sort of private VIP room. They waited to board a flight to Houston, where they would meet up with Eliot. He had stabilized at the hospital in Caracas, and now the United States government wanted him closer to home.
    “Why can’t I go with him?” she blabbered at a feverish pitch, the cast on her arm a constant weight that added to her distress. With each breath she could have sworn a bone sliver from a rib punctured her insides. “I don’t understand. I just don’t understand.”
    Luke said something, but she couldn’t make out the words.
    It had been impossible to focus since the nightmare erupted. Her own screaming from that day still echoed in her ears, drowning out others’ speech. Adrenaline pounded throughout her body, unabated bursts of energy that kept her awake and frenetic around the clock. She was truly aware of only two things: her proximity to Eliot and an incessant God, wake him up! Wake him up!
    And now they —those powers that stood hidden like the wizard of Oz behind a curtain, pulling the strings that directed their lives— they decided that she would not travel with him.
    Luke spoke again. At times when the words were lost, his tone got through to her. Its quiet, calming insistence centered her momentarily.
    She stopped yammering and turned her energy to clawing at the heavy, wrist-to-shoulder cast as if she could remove it. Two bones were broken, snapped when she landed forcefully on them on the flagstones.
    Luke pointed toward a door and leaned in, his nose nearly touching hers. “It’s time to go.” He touched her good wrist. “Now.”
    She watched his retreating back as he opened the door and walked through it. He strode into a crowded hallway. The door swished shut.
    A terror seized her, a primal fear that obliterated the nightmare of the shooting. This was something far worse, too awful for words.
    Sheridan raced out the door. “Luke! Luke!” She screamed his name again and again at the passing throng that had swallowed him from sight. “Luke!”
    And then he