"Cara," I reply. "Two weeks."
Her eyes widen slightly. "Oh. You're really fresh." She hesitates. "It gets... not easier, exactly. But more manageable."
"So I keep hearing," I say with a faint smile.
"The first month, I couldn't even look out a window without panicking," she confides. "Now I have a part-time job. My own bank account." These achievements are stated with the gravity they deserve. "Small steps."
"How did you do it?" I ask, the question loaded with unspoken desperation.
"One day at a time. Sometimes one hour." Rachel's gaze is steady, understanding. "And I stopped trying to be who I was before. That person's gone. I had to get to know who I am now."
The wisdom in her words settles over me as we move to the dining room for lunch. The meal is communal, women passing dishes family-style, conversations flowing naturally around the table. I'm introduced simply as a visitor, no explanations of my background needed in this company.
After lunch, Maggie pulls me aside. "There's an art therapy session starting, or we can head back if you're getting tired."
I'm exhausted, my social reserves depleted, but reluctant to leave this place where I'm not an anomaly. "The art thing, I think."
The art room is bright and airy, tables covered with supplies—paper, paints, clay, fabric. A gentle-voiced woman introduces herself as the therapist and explains the day's exercise: creating something that represents safety.
I sit at a corner table, selecting colored pencils and paper almost at random. Around me, women begin working—some methodically, others with bursts of frenetic energy. The therapist moves among them, offering encouragement without direction.
I stare at the blank page, uncertain. What is safety to me now? The clubhouse? This shelter? Neither feels permanent.
A movement catches my eye—a woman at the next table having difficulty opening a package of modeling clay, her hands trembling visibly. Without thinking, I reach over.
"Can I help?" I ask softly.
She nods, pushing the package toward me. As I open it, I notice track marks on her arms, some fresh, some faded scars. The physical evidence of coping mechanisms and exploitation.
"Thank you," she whispers, taking the clay back. "Bad day for fine motor skills."
"I understand," I say, and I do. Some days my own hands refuse to cooperate, phantom pains from healed breaks flaring up.
She begins working the clay with determined focus. "I'm making a door," she explains without looking up. "With a lock on the inside."
The simple image strikes me with its powerful symbolism. "That's perfect," I say.
"What about you?" she asks.
I turn back to my blank page, pencil hovering. Then, slowly, I begin to draw—not a place or object, but people. Stylized figures forming a circle, facing outward, protecting what's inside. The Saints Outlaws, with their leather and weapons. The women at this shelter, with their shared understanding. A makeshift family of survivors and protectors.
"A shield," I explain when the therapist pauses by my table. "People who stand between you and harm."
She nods thoughtfully. "Safety in community. Very powerful."
By the time the session ends, I'm drained but calmer than I've felt in days. Maggie finds me examining a bulletin board covered with job listings, educational opportunities, and success stories from former residents.
"Ready to head back?" she asks.
"Yes," I say, reluctant but realistic about my limits. "This place is incredible, Maggie. What you've built here."
"I had help," she says, leading me toward the exit. "The Saints Outlaws provided the means, but the vision came from the women who needed it." She hesitates. "We're always looking for volunteers, you know. When you're ready."
The casual offer of future purpose catches me off guard. "I don't know what I could offer."
"Are you kidding?" Maggie raises an eyebrow. "You have legal training, first hand experience, and from what I've seen today, natural empathy for other survivors. You'd be an asset."
The compliment warms something long cold inside me. "I'll think about it."