I nod in bleak acceptance. Resistance is futile.
“You’re staying on a low-security ward,” Doctor Warner continues. “This isn’t a prison. You’ll have plenty of freedom.” He slides a sheet of paper into a mounted frame with rounded edges on the back of my door. “I’ll leave your schedule here.”
We’re not prisoners, yet patients can’t be trusted to hold a sheet of paper. Go figure. What do they expect us to do? Paper cut ourselves to death?
“Breakfast is served in the cafeteria, and communal showers are down the hall on your right,” he continues. “Once you’re ready, I’ll see you for our first session.”
On the surface, Doctor Warner appears to be kind, but his icy blue stare has a calculated edge, like he’s rehearsing everything before he says it. I suspect he’s only being nice because I’m his boss’s daughter. My gut tells me I can’t trust him.
“What if I don’t want to do therapy?” I ask.
“Then you’ll only extend your stay,” he replies with a tight-lipped smile. “I’m sure you’ll make the right decision.”
I sigh as he leaves, then check my weekly schedule. It’s a mixture of study time and therapy sessions. What will Mom say when she finds out where I am? Dad may have kept Sarah’s time here a secret, but he won’t be able to explain my sudden disappearance, especially after his angry outburst last night. Hopefully, she’ll come to my rescue.
While I wait, as much as I’d like to stay in my room, I can’t hide forever. Last night, we drew a lot of attention. How will the other patients respond to me? Aiden, Eli, and Lex have earned people’s respect, so that could work in my favor. Although, after how we left things, I wouldn’t be surprised if they asked other patients to make my life miserable.
I slip into the hallway. A few patients shuffle toward the smell of burning toast, so I opt to head for the showers first.
The asylum separates male and female sleeping quarters, but the cafeteria and classrooms are shared, giving low-security patients the chance to mix during classes, group therapy, and mealtimes under supervision. However, I’m sure patients have their ways of getting around the rules and away from the watchful staff.
An orderly sits behind a desk at the entrance to the otherwise deserted bathroom, tapping her smoke-stained nails on the counter.
“Hi,” I say. “I?—”
Before I finish my sentence, she nudges her head at a stack of unfolded gray towels and a bucket with even grayer bars of soap.
“Is there any shampoo?” I ask.
“Shampoo?” She laughs, baring her yellow teeth. “You may be Acacia’s daughter, but you won’t get any special treatment here. You’ll have soap, like everyone else.”
Does Dad only recruit staff who have a mean streak? I cast a quick look around to make sure no one else heard her. Although, if the staff know who I am, it won’t take long for word to get around. I feign a polite smile and pick up my supplies without complaining. Toilet stalls line one wall with sinks and mirrors opposite, and private showers span along the back.
I step into a cubicle. Mold fills the cracks between the ghastly green tiles, and clumps of hair protrude from the plug hole. I search for a shelf or hook, but there isn’t one, so I sling my towel and clothes over the top of the door.
Lukewarm water dribbles out at irregular intervals. I have to punch a button every twenty seconds to keep it flowing, but it’s better than nothing. If a patient wasn’t insane before admission, contending with these showers daily would be enough to tip anyone over the edge.
I rub the back of my neck with the scrap of soap and frown. A patch of my skin stings and is raised to the touch.
“What the…”
A burst of laughter from the other side of the door makes me freeze. It takes a second to realize the reason for the noise. My clothes and towel are gone. Hysterical giggling accompanies the sound of slapping sandals across the wet floor.
A ringing bell signals the end of breakfast.
“Time to come out, Acacia,” the unpleasant woman on the desk calls. “Breakfast is finished.”
I peer around the door. “Can you bring me another towel, or anything else to wear? Someone took my clothes.”
“What do I look like? A personal shopper?” The woman crosses her arms. “I can’t abandon my station. If you’ve been careless enough to lose your uniform, you’ll have to retrieve a fresh one from the laundry room. Next door on your left.”
“You must have seen someone take my things,” I say. “You were sitting right there the whole time.”
“I saw nothing,” she lies.
My cheeks burn. “But I don’t want to walk down the hall naked.”
She raises her eyebrows. “How is that my problem?”
