I stared sullenly at the mirror as I scrubbed my hands, a towel wrapped around me and a towel holding my hair up. Soon the blood beneath my fingernails was all washed away, and I toweled myself dry and struggled to drag a comb through my hair. A soft knock at the door made me scream at the unexpected person, “Wait one goddamn minute!” Before I hurriedly dressed in clothes that fit like they were tailored just for me. I opened the door with a comb sticking out of one side of my bush of morning hair, and a tangled brush sticking out of the other. The good Doctor led me to my bed and helped my untangle my hair, then smooth it out so I could actually drag a brush for it. He could be a stylist!

But no. He was a doctor, and he still wouldn’t tell me what to do, or what I was doing around here. He shook out some pills into my palm, handed me a glass of water, and waited while I took them. Then he handed me some notebooks, a binder, and then motioned to the door. I stared at him, and then at the door. Then I moved.