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sorry.”
    But it didn’t make me feel any better.

    . . .

    I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to sleep, without much success. The nurses kept looking in on me, and there were too many sounds from the corridor—bursts of high-pitched laughter, blue hisses and yellow mutters, the rubbery squeaks of shoes and wheels—for even my drug-fogged senses to ignore.
    At suppertime, a burly aide named Ray tried to get me to eat in the kitchenette with the other Red Maple patients. I told him I had a migraine, and he took pity on me. He brought me a paper plate with a slab of battered fish, some soggy coleslaw, and a few withered-looking fries. The plastic cutlery was so flimsy I could barely eat with it. I forced down a few mouthfuls, then lay down and pulled the blankets over my head again.
    “. . . Hey, Alison, it’s nine o’clock. Time for your meds.”
    I didn’t feel like I’d slept, but I must have. I turned over, wincing at the sudden trumpet flourish of light. Ray stood in the doorway, one hand on the switch. “I’ll show you where to go,” he said. “You can get something to help you sleep better too, if you want.”
    I worked my tongue around my dry mouth. My stomach still felt queasy, but my headache was gone. “I . . . don’t really want any more pills.”
    “Okay,” Ray said. “But you still need to take your meds. Doctor’s orders.”
    You don’t understand
, I wanted to say.
I can’t go out there with the other patients. What if I lose control, and end up doing to one of them what I did to Tori?
    But he wouldn’t understand, and I didn’t want to make him drag me out. So I took a slow, calming breath and followed Ray into the corridor, where a nurse was waiting with the medicine cart. About seven male and female patients—some barely more than children, others looking old enough to be shipped off to an adult facility any day now—had formed a ragged line, with a couple of watchful aides on either side. My heart stuttered at the sight of the girl with the inky spikes of hair, hunched at the end of the line. If I joined the group, I’d be right behind her.
    “Don’t be shy,” Ray rumbled, nudging me forward. Then he raised his voice and said, “Hey, guys, this is Alison. Say hello.”
    “Hi!” blurted one of the younger boys, but the others mostly ducked their heads and muttered, or gave no sign of noticing me at all. One by one they shuffled up to take their medication, then turned and headed back toward the TV’s Technicolor blare. The ink-haired girl snatched her cups from the nurse’s hand and slammed them back like a double shot of whiskey, then gave me a contemptuous glare before dropping them into the trash and stalking away.
    “Never mind Micheline,” said Ray, taking my cups from the nurse and handing them to me. “She acts tough, but she’s a good kid really. Sure you don’t want that sleeping pill?”
    The corridor was clear now, the other patients safely gone. I looked at the pills in my cup. “No, thanks,” I said, and swallowed them.

    . . .

    “Good morning, Alison. My name is Shabnam. Please—” The middle-aged woman extended an elegant hand—“sit down.”
    We were in a little office next to the nurses’ station, with the door propped open for security’s sake. Self-conscious in my hospital pajamas, especially compared to Shabnam’s silken headscarf and crisply pressed slacks, I took a seat.
    “Now, this is the first time you’ve been able to meet with a rights adviser, isn’t that so?”
    Her lilting voice rippled like sunlight on water, making mesmerizing patterns in front of my eyes. It took me a few seconds to remember that we were supposed to be having a conversation. “What? Oh. Yes. Sorry.”
    “There is no need to apologize,” she said. “I’m here to help you understand your situation, and what your rights are under the Mental Health Act. You see—” She folded her hands and leaned across the table—“you were admitted to St.