Chapter 7
The hospital social worker called him after I agreed to speak with him.
She didn't make it sound like an appointment I had already committed to. She stood near the curtain of the emergency-room bay, one hand resting lightly on the edge of the privacy partition, and waited while I read the name on the card she held.
“Eli Mercer,” she said. “He works with a local victim-support nonprofit. His role is evidence organization, safety planning, and connecting people with housing and legal resources. He isn't law enforcement, and he won't contact anyone on your behalf without your permission.”
I looked down at the card again. The paper was thick and plain. No bright logo. No promise that everything would be fixed.
“What happens if I say no?”
“Then I tell him you aren't ready, and nothing changes about the support available here.”
That answer mattered more than I expected. I had grown used to people treating my hesitation as another problem they needed to solve. Ryan had done it with a sigh. His mother had done it with a soft voice and a hand closing around my wrist. Even the silence in the hospital seemed to ask me to decide quickly.
I nodded once. “I’ll speak with him.”
Eli waited outside until the social worker invited him in.
He was around my age, maybe a little older, wearing a dark sweater over a collared shirt and carrying a thin folder. He didn't stare at my swollen eye or the split in my lip. His attention settled on my face, then moved naturally to the chair beside the bed.
“Would you rather I sit there, or would you prefer I stay standing?” he asked.
The question caught me off guard.
“There is fine.”
He took the chair but didn't open the folder. The fluorescent lights flattened the color from everything in the room. My phone lay facedown beside my thigh, heavy with screenshots, messages, and the attachment I still hadn't been able to open again.
The social worker introduced us, then explained that I had preserved material connected to the assault but wasn't ready to discuss the full sequence. Eli listened without interrupting. When she finished, he turned to me.
“I can help you sort what you already have,” he said. “That can mean making copies, recording dates, separating firsthand evidence from things you were told, or identifying what needs to be requested from the hospital. We can also talk about a safe place for you to stay. We don't have to discuss the incident today.”
I studied his hands. They stayed open on his knees.
“Do you need to see my phone?”
“No.”
The answer came so quickly that I almost looked behind me.
“If you want me to review something,” he continued, “you can show me. You can also describe it without handing it over. You decide what I see, and you can stop at any point.”
My throat tightened. “What if I change my mind after I show you?”
“Then we stop. I’ll note only what you authorize me to note.”
I had expected him to ask whether Ryan had threatened me, whether Madison had meant to hurt me, whether I could identify witnesses. Those questions were probably important. But he didn't reach for them before I was ready.
“I don't want to talk about what happened,” I said.
“Okay.”
“Not the details.”
“Okay.”
“And I don't want anyone calling Ryan.”
“I won't call him.”
The social worker shifted beside the curtain, quietly taking in the exchange. Eli reached into his folder and removed a small card with two phone numbers printed on it.
“This is the office line,” he said. “This is a direct number that goes to our rotating advocate line. You can text either one, but I won't text you first unless you give us permission. Some people prefer no voicemail. Some prefer email. Some want communication only through another person.”
“Text is fine,” I said, then reconsidered. “But not after nine at night.”
“I’ll mark that.”
He wrote it down, not on his phone, but on a form he kept turned toward me. The detail made me feel less observed.
The social worker asked where I planned to go when I was discharged. I stared at the pale sheet over my legs.
“I can't go back to the house.”
No one corrected me. No one asked whether Ryan would be there.
Eli said, “We can look at short-term options. A friend’s apartment, a hotel through emergency assistance, or a longer housing referral if you need it. Do you have someone you trust enough to stay with?”
“Natalie.”
“Would you like us to contact her, or would you rather do that yourself?”
“I’ll do it.”
He nodded. “Then that stays yours.”
For the first time since the emergency room, a decision felt like it belonged to me instead of being pulled from my hands.
We made one follow-up appointment for the next afternoon at the nonprofit office. Eli offered three times and let me choose the latest one. He asked whether I wanted the meeting in a private room, outside on the building’s small patio, or by phone.
“Private room,” I said. “No one else.”
“That’s what we’ll do.”
“What are we doing there?”
“Only what you agree to. We could organize the screenshots and the unknown attachment. We could make a list of documents to request. We could discuss housing. If all you want is coffee and ten minutes of silence, that’s also allowed.”
A faint, unwilling smile touched my mouth and pulled at the split lip.
He noticed, but didn't comment on it.
When he stood, he asked if he could leave his card on the bedside table. I said yes. He placed it beside my phone, leaving a deliberate space between them.
After he and the social worker stepped out, I picked up my phone. Ryan’s message was still there beneath the others.
Stop making yourself into a victim.
I read it once, then locked the screen. I wasn't ready to explain the whole truth to Eli. I wasn't ready to trust him with the attachment, either.
May you like
But I had chosen a time, a room, and a reason to return.
That was enough for one day.
