Handcuffed and hard-strapped into the rear seat of an NPF police van, Riley craned her neck to peer out the window at the passing streets. The court paperwork said she was being sent to a facility in Ballard, in northwest Seattle. She’d never been to Ballard before, but so far it seemed to consist mainly of quiet, tree-lined streets dotted with restaurants and cute shops. She thought it’d be fun to stop for coffee but suspected the armed and armored cops sitting up front might have something to say about the idea.
West on Sixty-Fifth, then north on Twenty-Fourth, she mouthed silently, memorizing the streets with each new turn, less interested in knowing where they were going than being sure she could reverse the sequence to get back out again.
Because she had zero intention of staying put.
It’s a hospital; assuming I can’t just talk my way out, how hard could it be to slip away and get back into the fray? The first obligation of a prisoner is to escape!
Agreeing to spend six months in a mental health facility instead of the Mission Creek Corrections Center was a calculated risk. Jails were good at hurting you on the outside, but psychiatrists knew all the ways to hurt you on the inside. Some of her friends who had gone into mental hospitals for treatment came out stronger, but as for the rest, it seemed like every time they went in, a little less of them came back out again. She wanted no part of whatever they had in mind for her mind. She wanted only a wall low enough for her to climb over and get to the other side.
Four more turns brought them to a long, gated driveway beneath a sign depicting a bright ocean sunrise beside the words Westside Behavioral and Psychiatric Residences. A second sign just above it, newer and more hastily erected, read American Renewal Center #14.
They parked in front of a whitewashed three-story building labeled Inpatient Treatment. The upper-floor windows were covered in ornate wrought-iron designs: cats and dogs and giraffes and parrots woven into elaborate backgrounds of vines and branches. Bars designed not to look like bars to the people inside, even though that’s exactly what they were. Happy barred windows.
They unstrapped her from the rear seat and led her through two sets of reinforced glass doors to the check-in station, where a receptionist in a bright green floral-print dress folded her hands and smiled in a calculated-to-the-kilowatt welcome.
As one of the officers handed over the paperwork, the other unlocked the handcuffs but kept a firm grip on Riley’s arm in case she tried to run. The receptionist flipped through the pages and signed where required without making direct eye contact with her.
Screw that, Riley decided. Doctors, police, and serial killers had one thing in common: your odds of survival absolutely depended on making them see you as a human being.
“Hi!” she said, smiling broadly.
The receptionist glanced up, startled. “Hi,” she said before she realized she’d done it, then quickly turned her attention back to the forms.
“Nice place.”
The receptionist nodded but didn’t reply, trained to avoid contact with new arrivals by remaining bureaucratically anonymous.
Okay, Riley thought. Initiating the How Far Can I Push This Before You Realize I’m Fucking With You? program in five, four, three, two—
“I don’t want a room with a giraffe.”
The receptionist paused, pen poised over the last line of the form. “Sorry?”
“The windows have animals on them, and giraffes freak me out. Something about the necks, you know? I get really nervous and scared and out of control, and I don’t want to be any trouble. Can you check?”
Uncertain eyes flicked from Riley to the cops and back again. “I suppose . . . just a second.”
A monitor flared to life, and with a few clicks she summoned up the details of Riley’s assigned room. “It doesn’t say. There’s not a field for the window design.”
“Can you find out?” Riley asked, still smiling.
The receptionist toggled a microphone on her desk. “This is Maria at the front desk. Could an orderly let me know what the window design is in room twenty-one forty-one?”
“Thanks, Maria,” Riley said, enjoying the look on the receptionist’s face when she realized that she’d not only acknowledged Riley’s existence but had inadvertently provided her name.
The speaker buzzed back at her. “Parrot,” a man’s voice said.
“Parrot,” the receptionist parroted.
“Perfect,” Riley said, feigning relief.
The cop holding her arm shifted impatiently. “Can we get this over with?”
“Of course,” the receptionist said, “sorry.” She signed on the last dotted line, tore off the receipt at the bottom of the page, and handed it back. “All set.”
She buzzed the intercom again, and a tall African American orderly came through a security door behind them.
“We’re good to go,” Maria said.
The orderly took Riley by the arm with 50 percent less pounds-per-square-inch of pressure, just enough to say I’ve got you without the subtext of Does this hurt? Want to make something of it?
As they passed into a long, puke-green hallway, Riley glanced at the nameplate pinned to his crisp white shirt: Henry.
“You know it’s safe to let go of me, right, Henry?”
“Probably, yeah, but the rules say we have to maintain contact and control of all patients until they’ve been processed.” His voice was firm but surprisingly gentle. “Just a little longer.”
He led her through another set of doors—the door manufacturing business was apparently the place to be these days—to an administrative area, nodding and smiling at the support staff working in cubicles and small offices, the buzz of their voices low and efficient. At the end of the hall was an office with a brass nameplate that read Dr. Lee Kim, Chief Administrator.
Henry knocked on the open door. “The new patient’s here, Dr. Kim.”
“Bring her in.”
Dr. Kim stood as she entered: late fifties, slender, Korean. The diplomas on the wall showed accomplishments and the photos on his desk showed a family man. “Please sit.”
She sat in one of two straight-backed chairs as he settled behind his desk and checked her file on his desktop monitor. “You’re here for observation under the ARC program,” he said, trying to sound chipper about it. “Six months.”
“Unless you want to leave the back door open and look away for a second.”
He smiled thinly and glanced away. He doesn’t like this arrangement any more than I do, she thought with a measure of hope.
“Since you’re going to be with us for a while, would you like me to tell you a little about Westside?”
“Sure,” she said. Yes, let’s change the subject to something more comfortable for one of us.
“For twenty years, this was an assisted-living facility, then twelve years ago it was acquired by our parent company, upgraded, and turned into an inpatient mental health hospital offering round-the-clock treatment for acute psychiatric problems, drug addiction, anxiety, alcoholism, bipolar disorders, and depression. Our programs include individual counseling and group therapy sessions, therapeutic medications, and medical evaluation and management.”
He continued to work through the list of protocols, as if stressing what the hospital used to do would let him avoid addressing what it was doing now.
“And now it’s a prison,” Riley said.
His face tightened. “We don’t have prisoners here. We have patients.”
“Well, both begin with the letter P, so there’s that, I guess.”
“Many of our patients check themselves in for treatment, but we’ve had a good history of working with the courts in situations where individuals are brought here because they represent a danger to themselves or others.”
“So why am I here?”
“You came in through the courts, the usual channel.”
“For the usual reasons?”
He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “That decision is outside our jurisdiction. And technically, since you signed the transfer forms, this constitutes self-commitment.”
“Then I’d like to self-uncommit.”
“We can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not my place to discuss hospital policy—”
“But you’re the administrator.”
“Yes, but our license to operate requires cooperation with the state and federal agencies that regulate our industry, as well as law enforcement. The state board of health selected us to participate in the ARC program, and that’s what we’re doing.”
“So you’re as much a prisoner as I am.”
He turned back to her file to avoid addressing the point. “Your records indicate that you have a bit of a temper.”
“Cuban and Irish. Work it out.”
“Also artistic, extremely bright, and can be very well spoken when necessary.”
“Cuban. Irish.”
He switched off the monitor and leaned back in his chair. “I’m going to be straight with you, Riley, because I think you’re smart enough to know what’s in your best interests. Under the new rules, I don’t have direct authority over your treatment or the term of your stay here. All of that falls under the jurisdiction of Homeland Security and the ARC program, which, at this center, is run by Mr. Thomas McGann.”
“Mister? So he’s not a doctor?”
“No,” Kim said, and he was grinding his teeth as he said it.
“Are all the patients here part of the ARC program?”
“No, most were here before the new mandate. So far, we have less than a dozen admissions like yourself, but I’m told that more are on the way. The original patients will eventually be moved to another hospital, but it’s taking a while to find beds given how tight things were in the first place. For now, everyone shares the same facilities and common rooms. McGann has his own staff and his own priorities, which operate outside my authority. What I’m trying to say is that under the circumstances, the best thing you can do during your stay is to try to fit in.”
“And if I don’t?”
“I’ll leave that to Mr. McGann to explain.
“One last thing,” he said, lowering his voice as he buzzed for the orderly. “Our hospital is one of several that have filed a lawsuit protesting this arrangement with Homeland Security. The case will take time to make its way through the courts, possibly a long time, and there’s no telling where things will end up when we finally do get in front of a judge. So my advice would be to avoid compromising your position while this case makes its way through the system. Don’t give them anything they can use against you.”
“For the next six months.”
Kim raised his hands in a way that said not my fault. “That’s the deal you signed,” he said.
Then the door opened and Henry entered. “Ready when you are, Riley,” he said, then smiled. “Ready Riley. From now on, that’s your nickname.”
Henry led her into an office new enough that it didn’t have a nameplate. The man she assumed was McGann stood inside with his back to her, looking out the window. Once Henry had stepped out and shut the door, McGann turned to her, revealing a thin, severe face that was younger than Kim, probably late forties, but felt older, with hay colored hair and dark, unforgiving eyes. “Sit,” he said, as though giving instructions to a dog.
She remained standing.
“I’ll be brief,” he said. “The waiver you signed that authorized psychiatric treatment in lieu of incarceration acknowledges that the violent tendencies you exhibited that led to you being arrested were the result of extremist influences and mental instability. The waiver stipulated your desire for corrective therapy, and ceded to us the legal authority to take whatever steps we deem necessary for your treatment, so there will be no debate on any of those subjects. During your stay, you will be evaluated on a points system. Constructive, cooperative behavior earns points. Uncooperative behavior subtracts them.”
“If I get enough points, do I win a stuffed panda?”
“At the end of the six-month observation period, your accumulated points will be factored into our decision as to whether or not you have made sufficient progress to be released. If not, we have the option of extending your period of treatment for another six months. We cannot turn you loose on society if your violent tendencies remain unaltered. Should your condition remain unsatisfactory, we have the authority to prolong your stay for as long as is required to give you the help you need.”
A hard knot formed in Riley’s stomach as the implications sank in. Nobody had explained this part when she signed the paperwork. If she’d remained in jail, at least there would have been a clear release date. But if McGann was telling the truth, and the pleasure she saw behind his eyes left little doubt of that, there was no such thing as a statutory limit when it came to psychological disorders. Her release would be subject to their opinion about her mental health, which was completely subjective.
McGann picked up a pen and notepad from his desk. “When you were arrested, several incriminating items were found in your possession, ranging from weapons—”
“It was a nail file.”
“Which could have been used to gouge out an officer’s eye or damage zip ties for the purpose of escape. There was also a burner phone which they managed to unlock—”
“By shoving it into my face.”
“—but which did not contain contact information for the other protesters. I doubt you memorized all their phone numbers and email addresses, which means you’re probably using a cloud-based text and voice-mail system. So, as a show of good faith, I want you to write down the URL for the system, your username, and password.”
He held out the notepad. “And I want you to do it right now.”
She took the notepad and began writing, then held up the page for him to see.
Cloud server: FUCKYOU.COM
Username: FUCKYOUTWICE
Password: ANDFURTHERMOREFUCKYOU
He tore off the page and slid it into a folder. “You’ve been here for less than an hour, and you’re already down ten points.”
“I’ve always been an overachiever.”
He looked past her as though she no longer existed and pushed the intercom.
“So, how many points do I start with, and how many do I need to get out of here?”
“I’m afraid that’s proprietary information.”
How convenient, she thought, but for the moment, did not say.
The door opened and Henry reappeared. “All done?”
McGann nodded, then as Riley was led out, added, “We’re here to help you. You may not understand that now, but you will in time. I believe that when this is over, you will thank us for intervening while there was still the opportunity to put you back on the straight and narrow.”
“So, how’re you holding up?” Henry asked once they were on the other side of the door.
“Swell,” she said flatly.
He laughed at her tone. “Yeah, I hear you. Okay, just one more stop, then we’ll get you to your room and you can catch your breath.”
“So have you been here for a while, Henry, or are you part of the new crew?”
“Started here three years ago. It was a great place to work, lots of good people.”
“And now?”
He shrugged. “Not my place to say.”
He opened a door to an examining room. “Dr. Nakamura will be right in to do the admission examination. Medical gowns are on the shelf over there.”
“Is this really necessary?”
“Afraid so. See you in a bit,” he said, and shut the door.
As Riley shivered in the cold room, she thought about refusing to change into the thin gown but decided it wasn’t worth the fight. There would almost certainly be bigger and better hills to die on later.
Once she finished changing, she sat on the examination table and waited for the doctor, growing sleepy with the silent, passing minutes. Stress reaction. Haven’t had much time by myself to process everything. She pushed through the fatigue. Don’t give them an advantage.
It was almost half an hour before Riley heard the rattle of paperwork in the wall folder outside the door. A moment later, the doctor—slender and dark-haired with a white coat over a deep-blue dress—stepped inside.
“Riley Diaz?” she asked with a slight British accent.
Riley nodded.
“Eleanor Nakamura.” She settled onto a rolling chair near the table. “Sorry for the long wait, we were having an issue with one of the other patients. He’s taking a bit of a nap now.”
“So are you in charge of the ARC patients?”
“That would be Dr. Edward Kaminski. You’ll meet him tomorrow, after you’re settled in. I spend most of my time running individual counseling sessions in cognitive therapy, but pitch in to handle new patient admissions when the staff is busy with other things.”
“Like whoever’s taking a nap?”
“Exactly. So, how are you feeling?”
“I’m good.”
“Excellent,” she said, switching on a tablet. “I have a few questions so we can finish processing your admission for treatment, then a quick physical, and you’ll be on your way. Are you having any issues with depression? Anxiety? Any suicidal thoughts?”
“Not until I got here.”
The room abruptly dropped several degrees as Nakamura’s gaze turned clinical, flicking from the screen to Riley.
Oh, hello, Skynet! Wondered when you were going to show up.
“We can do this quickly, or we can make a game of it,” Nakamura said. “Your choice. I’m paid by the week.”
“No, ma’am, no depression or any of the other stuff.”
“Have you been treated previously for behavioral issues?”
“Nope.”
“Any mental health issues in your family?”
“None.”
Her eyes flicked up again. “You say that with a great deal of certainty.”
“Never came up.”
“People often avoid talking about any mental health problems they may be experiencing, but that doesn’t mean those issues are invisible to family and friends. In response, we can become co-enablers, teaching ourselves not to see what we’re seeing, in order to avoid confronting them with truths they don’t want to hear about. So, regardless of what anyone did or didn’t say, did you ever see anything in your family that might suggest psychological distress or instability?”
“My folks weren’t crazy.”
“Not what I asked you.”
“Then no, I didn’t see anything.”
Nakamura swiped up to another screen. “Are you married or single?”
“Single.”
“Boyfriend or girlfriend?”
“Not at the moment.”
“What sort of work do you do?”
“Temp agency.”
“Doing what?”
“Whatever they need me to do. Babysitter, assistant, cook, clearing out garages—”
“Would you say you’re financially unstable?”
“These days, who isn’t?”
“Do you find that stressful?”
“I get by.”
“Yes or no, please.”
“No.”
Another screen.
“Any visible cold sores?”
“Can I borrow a mirror?”
Click! The look. I’m a cybernetic organism, living tissue over a metal endoskeleton. Have you seen Sarah Connor?
“No, ma’am.”
“Any major traumas in your life?”
“Yes, and I don’t want to talk about them right now.”
“Later, then?”
“Probably not. Is there more, or can I go?”
Nakamura’s fingers slid along the screen as she made a quick entry. “Do you use any recreational drugs?”
“Patient declines to answer.”
Nakamura switched off the tablet. “That leaves just the physical exam, and we’re done,” she said, snapping on a pair of nitrile gloves. “Please lay back on the table, this will only take a moment.”
* * *
“All set?” Henry asked.
Riley shrugged. Being poked and prodded by Nakamura made her feel like a piece of meat. Dismissive and as cold as the room itself. At least the hard part’s over, she decided.
Wanna bet? another part of her fired back.
Three more puke-green hallways, four doors, and a passkey-activated elevator brought them to the second floor. Room 2141 contained a narrow bed, an empty bookshelf, one plastic chair beside a small table bolted to the floor, and a bathroom with a metal toilet and a metal mirror screwed into the wall above a sink. The few extra clothes she’d brought to the protest were spread out on the bed. Everything else had been confiscated.
“I thought we’d all be wearing hospital gowns or uniforms,” she said as she picked through the clothes.
“Everyone assumes that, but no. Some patients spend years here, so the doctors want the hospital to feel as much like the outside world as possible. That way it’s not too much of a shock when they leave. For the same reason, male and female patients are allowed to congregate in the common rooms under staff supervision, though for safety reasons you’re not allowed to take other patients into your room unsupervised.”
He began going down a series of bullet points on his clipboard. “The entire first floor is restricted to staff only. You can move around the common areas on the second and third floors as long as you don’t interfere with the staff or upset the other patients. This floor has private rooms for examinations, medical treatment, individual therapy sessions, and a cafeteria. The women’s shower is at the north end of the building, men’s on the south. Third floor has larger rooms for group therapy sessions, an exercise room, and an arts and crafts room with music players and headphones along with some magazines, though somebody keeps tearing pages out of the damned things, so if you see who’s doing it, let me know. There’s a separate area on the third floor for staff members on shift that’s also off-limits to patients.
“You’re expected to be back in your room by ten p.m., with lights-out and lockdown at ten thirty. Rooms are unlocked at seven a.m., breakfast at eight, lunch at one, dinner at seven. Should you experience a medical emergency during the night or at any other time, there’s a panic button by the bed that rings the on-duty nurse’s station. If you’re thinking about using it for laughs, don’t—the ODNs have no sense of humor, and you’ll lose a lot of points because it could take them away from someone in actual need.
“You’ll get your therapy schedule tomorrow morning. If you have any nonmedical questions, you can ask me or any of the other orderlies. I know this is a lot to process on day one, but you’ll be okay. I got a good feeling about you, Ready Riley. One day at a time, right?”
And then he was gone.
Riley sat on the bed, closed her eyes, and let out a long, slow breath, forcing calm. You’ll be okay. Like he said, one day at a time, right?
When she opened her eyes again, the elongated shadow of the metal parrot in the window was stretched out on the bed beside her, cast by the fading afternoon light.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” she said to the shadow. “We’re not staying. One way or another, we’re getting out of here.”
The parrot declined to comment.