Macy pulled up her sleeves. Track marks. Fresh and old. “Mrs. Patterson got me hooked. Said it would make the work easier. Said I’d fight less.” Tears started falling. “I’ve been clean for three days. Since I ran. But they caught me at a truck stop in Topeka. Been passing me around since then.”
Three days. This sixteen-year-old had been trafficked for three days across multiple states and nobody had noticed.
“I lied. My mom’s dead. OD’d when I was seven. That’s why I went into foster care.”
“Other family?”
“Nobody.”
Of course. That’s how they picked victims. No one to miss them.
I looked at this kid. Sixteen. Addicted. Trafficked. No family. No hope. The system had failed her at every turn.
“What’s your full name?”
“Macy Rodriguez.”
“Macy, I’m going to help you. But I need you to trust me. Can you do that?”
“Because I’m about to cut those zip ties. Give you my phone. Let you call whoever you want. And if you want to run, I won’t stop you.”
I pulled out my knife. She flinched.
“I’m just cutting the ties.”
I cut them off. Handed her my phone. “Call whoever you trust most.”
She stared at it. “I don’t have anyone.”
“Then let me call someone who can help.”
I called Luther. My club’s lawyer. Woke him up at 3 AM.
Luther was silent for ten seconds. Then: “Where are you?”
I told him.
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