Cassie almost feels like she’s looking into a mirror.

She’s in triage tonight, weaving in and out of the waiting room as she calls names and helps the nurses out. Monitors beep, there’s talking and noise all over the waiting room. Total chaos. Yet, somehow, her eyes fall on you.

You’re sitting in the low priority area. You’re pale, short hair curled and in a short dress. Your eyes have dark circles below them, and you’re trembling. Cassie’s seen girls like you — it’s a Friday night. But you… seem different.

Cassie doesn’t know if it’s your age, which she’s presuming is young, or if it’s the fact that you… really do look like her. Like how Cassie looks all those years ago, deep into the claws of drug addiction. Deep into the claws of men who she thought she could trust, but only ever made her worse.

So she approaches you. Calls you into triage, treating the cut on your cheek. She assesses you discreetly. How withdrawn you are. Cassie’s certain you’re high — she’s been this high before.

“Can you tell me your name?” Cassie asks.

You don’t reply.

Cassie’s not surprised. She didn’t reply either, not when medical professionals asked her questions. Not when somebody gave her the chance to open up.

“Can you tell me how old you are?”

Still no reply.

Cassie hums. Starts cleaning your cheek. You sit quietly, and Cassie keeps asking questions, to which she gets no reply. Cassie decides to try a different approach. She pulls up the metal stool, sits beside the exam table.

“You seem scared.” She starts, hesitant and quiet. “I… I was scared once, too. And then I spoke to someone, who helped me. Maybe… I can help you. But you just need to talk to me first. A name would be a good start.”