All coming home.

Emma finally let herself cry.

Morrison held her while she shook.

“We did it,” he whispered.

You did it.

Terra did it.

She kept me alive to do it.

The rescued arrived over two days.

Emma met each one, saw herself reflected in their hollow eyes, their disbelief at freedom.

The last was a Marine, Sergeant David Park, missing three years.

They told us about you, he said.

Other prisoners whispered about the two women who never broke.

You became a legend.

We weren’t legends.

We were just scared kids trying to survive.

That’s what legends are.

A year after rescue, Emma stood at Arlington again.

Not for a funeral this time, but for a memorial, a monument to the missing, the sold, the abandoned.

43 names carved in black granite, including those still unaccounted for.

Emma traced Terara’s name with her fingers.

37 found, she whispered.

Six still missing.

But I’m not done.

I’ll never be done.

Morrison stood beside her, sober 387 days.

She’d be proud.

She’d be annoyed it took so long.

They laughed, remembering Tara’s impatience, her determination.

Boyd approached with sharp and Coleman.

Emma, there’s something you need to know.

The president’s signing the Mitchell Hawkins Act tomorrow.

The what? legislation requiring immediate investigation of any missing personnel.

No one gets written off.

No one gets abandoned.

Named for you and Tara.

Emma looked at Diane Mitchell, who stood by her daughter’s grave, finally having something more than just loss.

She saved me, Emma told them.

In that cellar dying, she saved me every day.

Made me eat when she was starving.

Made me drink when she was dehydrated.

made me believe we’d make it when she knew she wouldn’t.

“You saved each other,” Morrison said.

“No.

” Emma pulled out the piece of fabric with its bloody marks.

1,826 days.

“She saved me.

I just survived to tell about it.

” That night, Emma returned to her apartment.

The walls still covered with maps, but now half had red X’s through them.

Prisoners found, brought home.

Her phone rang.

Unknown number.

Miss Hawkins.

This is Sergeant Park’s mother.

I just wanted to say thank you.

I didn’t.

You didn’t stop looking.

When everyone else gave up, you didn’t stop.

That’s everything.

After the call, Emma opened Terara’s journal to the last entry.

Emma will blame herself when I die.

She’ll carry guilt that isn’t hers.

But here’s the truth.

She gave me purpose.

protecting her, keeping her alive.

It made my suffering mean something.

We came here as strangers.

We’re leaving as sisters.

She doesn’t know how strong she is, but she’ll learn.

The world will learn.

I love you, M.

Save them all.

Emma closed the journal, looked at the remaining faces on her wall.

Six still missing.

“I’m trying, Tara,” she said to the empty room.

“I’m trying.

” Her phone buzzed.

Coleman knew intelligence possible location for one of the six.

Emma grabbed her files, headed out into the night.

The count continued.

Would always continue.

Not days anymore, but lives.

37 saved.

Six to go.

She thought about Terara’s promise that Emma would burn down the network that sold them.

It was burning.

Slowly, methodically, but burning.

And Emma would keep lighting matches until every last prisoner came home.

Until every wall stopped accumulating scratches, until no one else died forgotten in the dark.

She owed Tara that much.

She owed them all that much.

The mission continued 2 years after rescue.

Emma stood before another congressional committee, this time as deputy director of the newly formed Office of Missing Personnel Recovery.

41 of 43 known trafficked Americans had been recovered.

Two had died before rescue could reach them.

Morrison sat in the gallery now running a nonprofit supporting rescued prisoners.

Sober 3 years.

He wore Tara’s wedding ring on a chain around his neck.

Director Hawkins, the senator addressed her.

Your office has requested increased funding.

Yes, Senator.

We have credible intelligence on 17 more missing personnel.

Not just Americans, allies, civilians, journalists.

The war is winding down.

Wars end.

The abandoned don’t.

She presented her case with the same steady determination that had kept her alive for 1,826 days.

The committee approved the funding.

Outside, Emma found Diane Mitchell waiting.

“She’d be so proud,” Diane said.

Emma hugged her.

The mother who’d lost a daughter who’d gained another.

43 days, Emma said.

What? That’s how long Tara survived after she got sick.

43 days of dying and she still protected me.

Still kept me strong.

She loved you.

She saved me over and over in ways I’m still discovering.

That night, Emma visited Arlington one last time before flying to Pakistan for another recovery operation.

She knelt at Tara’s headstone.

Tara Mitchell Morrison specialist, US Army daughter, wife, sister, hero forever.

Emma left a small stone on top, a tradition Tara had taught her from her Jewish grandmother.

Stones to show someone had visited remembered.

The headstone was covered in stones.

Hundreds of them from Morrison, from Diane, from rescued prisoners who knew they owed their freedom to Terara’s sacrifice.

43 found, six still missing, Emma whispered.

I won’t stop.

That’s my promise, my forever.

The wind picked up, rustling through Arlington’s endless rose.

For a moment, Emma could almost hear Terara’s laugh, feel her presence.

Then she walked away toward the waiting car, toward the plane, toward the missing, still counting days on walls.

The mission never ended.

The count went on for Terara, for all of them, forever.

 

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