It’s been a quiet morning on Ward 6, as far as these things go. Breakfast went smoothly, and later, during free time, one of the doctors brought in doughnuts for the patients and staff. A radio plays softly in the nurses’ station, and Andy lurches up and down the hall, humming tunelessly to a Bruno Mars song.
There are two new names on the hall whiteboard that lists the ward’s residents, and three old ones have been recently erased: Sean L., Jade P., and Cora S. They’ve gone back to their homes and families, armed with prescriptions, reassurances, and outpatient therapy appointments. With any luck, these will be enough to keep them safe in the world. If they aren’t, Belman will welcome them back.
Jordan Hassan walks down the hall, peering in through doorways. “Safety check. Safety check. Safety check.” Most of the rooms are empty, since patients are supposed to be in one kind of therapy or another, or at least hanging out in the lounge with everyone else.
Then he comes to Room 5A. The door’s shut, so he knocks and opens it. Hannah crouches in the corner near the bed, shivering. Her lips move quickly but silently, and her hands flap and circle the air around her head like birds.
He looks up and down the hallway. He knows that Sophie, Hannah’s roommate, has gone to a meditation circle, where she’s listening to New Age music and the low, soothing voice of Harold Wong, Belman’s part-time yoga and breathwork instructor. Sophie’s struggling, but she’s doing her best to get better.
Meanwhile Hannah is here, alone and lost. Not getting better.
Jordan says her name, and she looks up at him. Her dark eyes don’t focus on his face.
“Help me,” she whispers. “Help me.”
“Oh, Hannah, I want to,” he says, moving toward her. If he could take her into his arms, he would. He hates seeing her like this.
She shrinks farther into the corner, and Jordan can tell that she doesn’t know who he is. Her body’s in a psychiatric ward, and her mind’s four thousand miles and seven centuries away.