Loud noises sent her back to the cabin before she could remind herself where she really was.
At night, she sometimes woke convinced nine years of rescue, police, hospital rooms, and court testimony had all been a dream.
Her family learned not to rush toward her when she panicked.
They announced themselves before entering rooms.
They asked before touching her.
Her sister once apologized for being too careful.
Joan shook her head.
“You’re letting me decide.”
That was the difference.
Physical recovery was difficult too.
Muscles weakened by confinement needed rebuilding.
Her eyesight had suffered after years in dim rooms.
Nutrition had to be restored gradually.
Walking long distances hurt.
But those problems could be measured.
Trauma was stranger.
One day could feel almost normal.
The next could be impossible.
Her therapists repeatedly reminded her that progress did not move in a straight line.
Joan hated that.
She had been a trucker.
Truckers understood destinations.
Routes.
Mileage.
Arrival times.
Healing came with no reliable map.
So she built one herself.
