Michelle awoke to the sounds of traditional Syrian music on a cheap radio. Someone was stroking her hair. She found herself on a bed, in a bedroom, with a young Arab man kneeling beside her. Her lack of reaction to her situation surprised her. She was very comfortable...then she remembered her crawl in the desert, the pain...the pain was gone now. She drew up her left arm slowly and felt her forehead. Everything was odd...she must have been drugged. The man, probably nineteen or twenty years old, with hair long enough to resemble a small Afro, noticed her eyes had opened and smiled. He said something softly in Arabic. She smiled back, against her better judgment.
"Where are we?" she choked. There was sand in her mouth and throat, which she just noticed.
"At my father's house. He is doctor," he said with an accent so thick she would later wish for subtitles.
She attempted to sit up, but her body didn't cooperate. "You rest. My father come back soon. Rest," the young man said.
She wanted to thank him for rescuing her, assuming he had anything to do with her being here, but all that came out was "Thank..." accompanied by a soft smile, and she drifted to healing sleep again.