Ascendancy

Chapter 1

"Your scoring would say otherwise, Mrs. Walin."

This isn't making any sense. "What test? And who exactly are you?"

"I'm Natalie Roman, and I work for the Wakandan government. We want you to come work for us. And by test scores," Natalie sits down on the sandy ground across from me. "I mean the ones we assigned you. Our researchers, the top in the world, searched the globe for someone with your capabilities. They ranked the top Psychologist in the world, and when it comes to Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, you are the top of your class."

This, of course, shocks me. I know I'm pretty good, I was always the top of my class, and my experience on the field may be near invaluable if I head back to the states. But the best out there? That just doesn't seem right.

"I highly doubt that."

Natalie shifts back on her heels, and says, "You better believe it. The Wakandan government is willing to pay you a large sum of money for your help with just one patient."

This must be one special patient. "Do you have the patient file?"

"I'm sorry but that's classified information." A patient I can't even know? Natalie replied. "If you accept, than we would immediately wish you to come to Wakanda. If you want to help us, come find my tent in the morning and we will head out promptly."

But what about my current patients. It's hard enough to see some of these emotionally damaged Sudanese leave our sessions after the first one. They need so much help, but they are too proud to take it.

"How long would I be there?"

"As long as it takes."

"And you still can't tell me anything about this mysterious patient?"

Natalie raises her eyebrows and the corners of her lips curl up slightly. "All I can say is that they will be the most challenging case you've ever had the... pleasure of working with."

"Oh." I reply plainly.

Patiently waiting for my response, Natalie stands up and says quietly, "I'll give you some time to think." And I watch her red hair as she goes and walks across the sandy plain to the UN workers.

This is insane. Wakanda is the richest city in Africa and the thought that they want me for one patient.... It must be an insanely special person. The offer is extremely intriguing but I don't just want to leave everything I have here. And my patients.

I flop on my back, and a slightly exasperated sigh escapes my chap lips. Running my hand though my short brown locks, the grainy sand in my hair tickles my fingers. How am I even supposed to decide? If this person is truly as damaged as they say, this could be great practice (and look great on my resume) but who knows how long I would be in Wakanda helping this man? But with the money they might pay me, I could stay on the field for a long time...

I feel like I should go help unload but I'm sure they have enough help, considering how happy people were to see the new shipment of supplies. The campers would be lining up to help.

Night falls, the suns last yellow rays shine through the canvas of my tent and all I do is lay there, wracking my brain to decide. It's not that I'm bad at decisions, but there are pros and cons to this situation that I just can't wrap my mind entirely around.

A kid walks in as I'm in that state between sleep and awareness, and I jerk awake, embarrassedly wiping the drool from the side of my mouth. "Male, Ella. The workers brought sampa! And I brought soup we cook." The adorable little boy says in his stilted African-English. He hands me a hot styrofoam bowl full of steaming vegetable soup. "Thank you." I say, taking the bowl.

As if the world depends on it, I wolf down the canned soup. That's when it hits me. If I can get that money then maybe that little boy will be this happy and full all the time. And it's just possible if I do a good job for the Wakandan government, they will be willing to hear me make a case for the Sudanese people. More food, more... everything.

I need to do this. The simple truth is it shouldn't take long to help this patient. If he (or she) is to be my one and only, then all my attention will be on them.

So the next morning I meet Natalie at her tent, and find her already awake, her whole self surprisingly clean and put together. "I'm going." I tell her directly. She nods her head, as if expecting that answer. "Let's go."

"Uh, how?" Natalie just starts walking, past all the tents and shacks, of which she had stayed in one last night, her black combat boots grounding the sandy terrain. OK, then. A woman of few words, I guess.

We head towards the UN vehicles, which would be here for a few days until they finish giving some vaccines. Natalie goes to the back of the van, and unlatches the hatch, lifting it by the strap. And there is a motorcycle.

Natalie jumps up, and pulls down the ramp. Spinning her keys on a finger, she saunters up and revves up the cycle. Slowly she rolls down the ramp, and then shouts over the engine, "Hop on!"

I swing my leg onto the hot seat, and with a roar of the engine, we head off toward the sun. Toward Wakanda. The land of my mysterious patient.

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