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Mum’s.
    “I am Dr Pollard,” she tells them, “the Director of the clinic. My colleagues –” she points in turn “are Assistants Webb, Hensher and Sumner.”
    Shiv tags them: Webb is the cool black guy; Hensher is the awkward ginger guy; Sumner is the too-smiley, fake-tanned blonde. None looks older than thirty.
    “There are other staff here, of course,” Dr Pollard continues. “Gardeners, cooks, cleaners, security, a maintenance man, a nurse – Zena, whom you will have met – and a couple of orderlies … but the four of us –” she gestures at herself and her colleagues behind the desk – “will be the ones who supervise your treatment.” She pauses. “We will be the ones who help to make you well.”
    A snort of laughter further along the row. Mikey.
    The Director’s gaze settles on him, lingering for a moment, as though she’s debating whether to challenge his reaction or ignore it. She ignores it.
    The look establishes her authority better than any words.
    “OK, so ,” Dr Pollard says, returning her attention to the group, “what is this strange place in which you find yourselves? What is the Korsakoff Clinic?”
    Her gaze trawls the line of residents, like she’s waiting for a hand to go up – or, worse, is about to pick one of them to answer.
    The Director presses on. “Those of you who’ve read the literature we sent to your parents and guardians will have an idea of who we are and what we do. No doubt some of you will have googled us as well.” She says the word as though holding it between tweezers like a captured wasp.
    Shiv has read the literature. Shiv has googled.
    As soon as she’d been recommended for referral, she tried to find out as much as she could. Not that there’s much to be found – not about what goes on here, anyway. The Korsakoff Clinic’s methods appear to be cloaked in mystery, rumour and misinformation. Even its own prospectus gives only a vague outline of the treatment programme. Most of the text describes the place’s history. So, Shiv knows the clinic was founded by the Korsakoff Institute, a psychotherapeutic research body established a decade ago thanks to the bequest of an anonymous, and very wealthy, American donor. It is named after a neuropsychiatrist whose theory is at the root of the clinic’s “therapeutic strategy”. Shiv made little sense of it (at least, Wikipedia’s definition). But, by all accounts, it has created a buzz in international psychiatric circles, with three clinics opening around the world – in the US, Canada and Germany – and now a fourth, in the UK. The British clinic is partially funded by the government after winning a contract to trial its innovative methods in small groups. Since it opened a year ago, three sets of adults have been treated here.
    Shiv and the others are the first teenagers.
    “What I want to get straight,” Dr Pollard continues, “is why you’ve been sent to us in the first place.” That beaming smile, which disappeared with Mikey’s interruption, resurfaces. The gap between her front teeth is almost wide enough to fit another tooth. “Of all those referred to us, why have we chosen to accept you? What makes the six of you so special?”
    “’Cos we’re the craziest of the cray-zeeez.” This is Caron.
    One or two of the others laugh; even Assistant Webb cracks a grin.
    “It’s Caron, isn’t it?” Dr Pollard asks. When Caron nods, the Director presses her palms together and says, “Sorry to disappoint you –” that gap-toothed beam again – “but, no, you’re not the craziest young people in the country. You are, however, just the type of crazies we happen to like.”
    Should they find this funny? No one seems quite sure.
    “Your specific individual circumstances are different, of course.” Dr Pollard is serious again. “But you’re all here for the same three reasons.” She counts them off on her fingers. “One, you’ve each suffered a traumatic bereavement. Two, this trauma