 
CONDITIONAL VOLUNTARY

A Novel by Geoffrey A. Feller

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 by Geoffrey A. Feller

CHAPTER 1:

SIGN HERE, PLEASE

Patrick Coyne woke up in a strange place one summer morning in 1987. Right away, he realized that he wasn't in his own bed. The mattress felt funny and the ceiling was unfamiliar. Patrick flinched and turned onto his left side. There was a second bed a few feet away and alongside the one he was lying on. A hospital bed. There was no sheet on it; the mattress looked like it was coated in plastic or vinyl, which explained the odd feel of what he was lying on.

Warily, Patrick glanced around the room after rubbing his eyes. There were twin sets of lights over the headboards. From their rectangular shapes, it was plain that they were fluorescent tubes instead of bulbs. It so happened that what light there was in the room was coming from the picture window. A shade had been pulled but it wasn't down all the way and harsh morning sun had broken through to splash over the black linoleum floor.

Two chests of drawers were placed between the beds. There was a door over in a corner of the room, a sink without a mirror, a paper towel dispenser, and then, to Patrick's right, another door.

His heart was pounding. _Hospital_! But what for? He reached under the covers, making sure that his thin body was still intact. No bandages, no casts, no stitches. Physically intact. But where had the last several hours gone? This looked like morning, all right. Felt like it. But the last thing Patrick could remember was strolling down a sidewalk near Porter Square under an afternoon sun.

_Psycho ward_! The conclusion was impossible to resist. It must be... The room didn't look sanitary enough to be in a medical unit, after all. But what had happened to bring him here?

Trying to concentrate through his anxiety, Patrick dug into his memory. But it was stubborn, unyielding beyond that warm afternoon, however long ago that had been. For all Patrick knew, he had been in a coma for a year, long enough to heal whatever physical injuries there might have been.

"Bullshit," he whispered.

If he had been in a coma, there would be wires and things connected to him. Monitors beeping, measuring his heart and lung activity, his brainwaves. All in a nice, sterile medical hospital.

"Psycho ward," Patrick croaked out loud.

He curled up into a fetal position and wondered why he would've been put there. Patrick felt vulnerable under the ratty little blanket, only a pair of white underwear briefs away from utter nudity.

There was one reason Patrick could think of for having been taken to this place. It made his pulse speed up even more to consider that he could be under arrest. This could be a prison hospital. That might explain the untidy state of this room. Who cares about sick prisoners, anyway? Then again, Patrick was back to the fact that he wasn't injured. Otherwise, he felt anxious rather than sick.

Maybe it was another kind of hospital altogether. Didn't the Soviets lock up dissidents in psych wards? After all, Patrick knew that the Drug Enforcement Agency had been watching him for years. Perhaps there had been some secret amendment to some law that got passed behind the public's back. Some kind of euphemism could have been used, like the Drug Treatment Act. Several innocuous paragraphs that would seem boring to average citizens followed by fine print about involuntary, indefinite commitment of drug users.

Or maybe it was part of something even more sinister, like a Drug Emergency Act. Maybe the dealers were already locked up in _gulags_ out in the Desert Southwest, perhaps even in some of the old internment camps used for Japanese Americans during World War II. Dealers in _gulags_ ; kingpins summarily executed on live television; registered drug users like Patrick forced into treatment. The DEA certainly had a file on him. That's why they'd been watching.

Patrick could just imagine Reagan signing the act into law in a Rose Garden ceremony. Nancy would be there at his side, smiling with smug satisfaction. They'd call it the Just Say No Act in the media, selling it as a way to protect the nation's children...

Then somebody opened the door to his right. Patrick was startled although it opened slowly and quietly, apparently so as not to wake him.

A small, slender woman with wire-rimmed glasses stepped into the room. She had short, dark hair, and was wearing a baggy shirt and tan slacks. She was carrying a clipboard with a bunch of keys tied to it by a plastic cord. The woman looked at Patrick and broke into a half-surprised smile.

"Oh, good morning!"

Patrick meant to respond but his words got stuck in his throat.

"How are you feeling?"

"All right," Patrick mumbled.

The woman's friendliness seemed forced and was not reassuring in itself. But she didn't scare him; she looked spindly and frail. And she wasn't wearing a uniform. Patrick knew quite well that DEA agents worked undercover when they followed him around. But if they had really nabbed him at last, wouldn't they come forward in their true colors, wearing fascist uniforms to intimidate him?

"My name is Brenda," the woman said. "I'm one of the counselors here."

"Counselors?" Patrick asked in confusion. "Where am I?"

"Hillside Hospital in Somerville," Brenda replied. "You were admitted here last night."

"I don't remember any of that. What day is it?"

"Thursday the eleventh."

"June?"

Brenda replied with a nod and a strained smile.

"Am I under arrest?"

"Oh," the counselor exclaimed, "of course not!"

"Then what am I doing here?"

Brenda coughed slightly. Her left elbow bumped the doorknob.

"We'll leave that for Dr. Kearney to explain, okay?"

Embarrassed to have made Brenda so uncomfortable, Patrick nodded quickly.

"Um, you have some clothes in that dresser," Brenda told him. "If you'd like to put them on, I can show you around the ward."

"Yeah, okay."

"That's your bathroom over there," Brenda said, pointing to the door at his left. "You're right across the hall from the staff office. I'll wait for you there, all right?"

"All right."

Patrick found no change of undershorts in the dresser drawers. But there was his yellow short-sleeved shirt and gray corduroys. Yes, he'd been wearing them in Porter Square. His running shoes and socks were on the floor in front of the dresser.

The bathroom turned out to be nothing more than a toilet with another door on the opposite side. Patrick locked that door with a push-button in the knob before emptying his bladder, realizing that another scrap of privacy had been taken away from him.

While there was no mirror, Patrick could make out a blurry reflection of his face in the stainless steel surface of the paper towel dispenser. It was his familiar narrow face, all right. Light brown hair disheveled, pale skin dotted by a few pimples on the forehead, brown eyes wide open. No scars or bruises so he hadn't been in any fights during those missing hours.

Brenda had closed the door when she'd left. It was unlocked and Patrick pulled it open to cross the hall. He looked both ways first. Down on his left were two rows of doors, most of them open, and a glassed-in alcove at the end of the hall that had a Dutch door, which he guessed was the nurse's station.

To his right was an open set of fire doors and past them a wooden desk, more doors, and a set of gray lockers up against the wall towards the far end. There was a white-haired old lady in a light blue jacket sitting at the desk. Then Patrick looked ahead to see the staff office door.

It was just where Brenda had said it would be. Otherwise, Patrick could tell what it was by the big wooden letters nailed into the door itself, spelling out "STAFF".

And it was closed.

Patrick glanced back up and down the hall, not seeing anyone other than the old lady. She was as still and silent as a wax dummy. After standing there for what seemed longer than a minute, somebody emerged from one of the patient rooms. It was a short, middle-aged woman wearing a T-shirt and white jeans. She looked up at Patrick curiously.

"Hello," she said.

"Um, do you work here?" Patrick asked.

The woman laughed out loud and grinned.

"I like you already!"

Patrick smiled back. He noticed a pack of cigarettes in her right hand.

"My name's Linda. I'm just another patient, like you. What's your name?"

"Patrick."

"Got in last night?"

"Yeah. I was supposed to meet one of the staff here. Brenda, I think. She was going to show me around."

"Oh," Linda nodded. "Just go ahead and knock. You have an appointment, anyway."

When Patrick hesitated, Linda stepped right up to the office door and rapped on it sharply.

After a few seconds, the door opened with a loud click.

A man's voice asked: "Yes, Linda?"

"The new kid's here to see Brenda."

A slightly more muffled voice responded with an "Oh!" Then the door swung wide open as Linda looked back at Patrick. He thanked her with another smile before Linda started off down the hallway towards the lockers.

Brenda came out into the hall and Patrick caught a glimpse of two more women in the staff office at a table. A portly man with unnaturally red hair was approaching a bookcase full of black, three-ring binders. Then Brenda closed the door before Patrick could notice anything else going on in there.

"Well," she said, "ready for the tour?"

Brenda started with a linen closet alongside the staff office where clean sheets and towels were kept. Patrick was more curious about the door on the other side of the linen closet. It had a small, square window near his head level. Brenda followed his gaze and explained.

"That's... the seclusion room," she said, sounding like she'd rehearsed the words. "People go in there when they need to be alone."

Patrick was afraid to look through the window in the door and obediently followed Brenda's brisk pace over the fire-door threshold. He was introduced to the old lady, being told she was Hilda the ward clerk. Hilda's responsibilities included making sure the ward was stocked with free supplies such as the thin bar of soap and tiny shampoo bottle that Patrick had seen earlier on the sink in his room.

The main entry door to the ward was across from the desk. Like the seclusion room door, it was closed and locked, with a square window in it. Elevator doors were visible through the window. Brenda said they were on the third floor of the hospital. Directing his attention back to the desk, the counselor told Patrick that when he had visitors, they would sign in on the log in a binder. Patient privileges were found on another form in the binder, showing whether they had permission to leave the ward without staff escort.

"I'm sure you'll be getting privileges soon," Brenda added.

The words of encouragement passed over Patrick without making much of an impression. Next, Brenda pointed out the two psychiatrists' offices, reiterating that Patrick's attending psychiatrist would be Dr. Kearney. The occupational therapy room was past the doctors' offices and was closed this early in the day.

A shower room was across the hall from the occupational therapy room. Then, a few feet down the wall past the shower, was a fire exit – no way out through that door unless you had a key. Brenda then told Patrick about the locker boxes.

"Patients are not allowed to keep sharp objects in their rooms," she lectured. "No glassware, no razors. Also no electric appliances. I mean, nothing with cords. They're dangerous. I don't mean to you necessarily but we do have some people who might hurt themselves – deliberately – with things like that."

Patrick nodded, thinking that this had nothing to do with him.

"Since these items are patients' property, we keep them locked up for safekeeping. You can ask a staff member to get them for you. And also..."

Brenda indicated a tall wooden cabinet next to the lockers.

"...we keep laundry detergent in here plus safety razors and soap. And there's a box where patient cash is kept safe."

Patrick blinked when she looked back up at him.

"Don't worry. You can carry money on you if you like. We strongly recommend putting away anything over a ten-dollar bill in the strong box. Our, um, protocol is to have two staff members present when the box is opened. The key is back at the sign-in desk. As for the laundry detergent..."

Brenda turned and pointed to the washer and dryer to the left of the fire door.

"...you use it there. The machines operate with tokens you get from the staff. Those are two more patient rooms there at the end. And here is the smoking room."

Now Patrick saw several more patients, six in all, crowding into the small room. They were all smoking cigarettes; a gray haze hung in the air. The room had a small table and some plastic modular chairs in addition to a vinyl, two-seater couch. All the patients looked older than Patrick.

"This is the only place on the ward where smoking is allowed," Brenda told him.

Patrick nodded indifferently again. He didn't smoke.

"Everyone, this is Patrick," Brenda said, turning to face the patients and raising her voice. "He's new here so I hope you'll all try to make him feel welcome."

"We've already met," one of the patients responded.

Patrick recognized her. It was Linda. He smiled again, glad to see even a barely familiar face. The other patients seemed to have only subdued interest in him or were otherwise apathetic.

Brenda took Patrick on a backtracking path up the hallway. His tour continued past the staff office down to the day room. While this was a much bigger place than the smoking area, Patrick saw only a couple of patients there.

Three long tables had been pushed end to end down the middle of the day room for a continuous dining surface. There were also a pair of long sofas on either side of the tables. Brenda showed Patrick the counter at one end of the day room with a bread box and toaster, an instant coffee dispenser, and a refrigerator. Opposite the counter at the other end of the day room was a bookcase – sparsely stocked – and a TV set sitting on a platform bolted to the wall up near the ceiling. Two picture windows revealed trees lining the street outside.

Brenda then led Patrick back into the hall and showed him the nurse's station, which was essentially the dispensary for medications. They were handed out from the Dutch door at four regular hours during the day or as needed on an individual basis.

The hallway made a short L-shape across from the day room. Three more patient rooms, a second shower, a chair for taking blood pressures, a weight scale, and another fire door took up this end of the ward. There were also two pay-phones on the wall next to the fire door.

Patrick had been listening and looking during the rest of his tour but his reactions were superficial. He kept thinking about the patients he'd just seen. His emotions had softened from anxiety into a numb self-consciousness. The other patients didn't frighten him so far. That is, they weren't frightening in themselves.

Was he now one of them? Why else would he be here? The reality of his surroundings were beginning to quash his notions of a DEA conspiracy. But there had to be another reason if not that the federal authorities out to get him. So Brenda wouldn't say why he'd been sent to this ward. It was up to the doctor to do that. Must be something bad, something delicate.

"The breakfast trays will be up at eight o'clock," Brenda told him. "You can wait in the day room or the smoking room."

"I don't think I'll be having any breakfast," Patrick said. "Could I wait for the doctor in my room?"

"Well, yes, of course," Brenda nodded without a smile. "But there will be an assembly at eight-thirty, sharp. We have the assemblies every weekday morning and you're expected to attend."

Patrick frowned and stared down at her.

"If you miss the meeting," Brenda went on, "you can't use your privileges. Once you have them, I mean."

"If I haven't got any," Patrick said, allowing himself to feel angry, "what's the difference?"

"It's all part of your treatment," Brenda said, edging back from him slightly. "Part of your, um, social integration. Y-you have to cooperate with your treatment to be given privileges."

Patrick grunted. He didn't care about privileges. All he wanted was to have his admission explained. Maybe it had all been some big mistake. Perhaps he'd had amnesia and it was misdiagnosed. If this Dr. Kearney could have it all straightened out then Patrick could walk out of here just like that and leave all this privilege stuff to people who cared about it.

"Well," Brenda said, cracking a difficult smile, "wait in your room if you want. I... I just had to let you know what to expect for the day. I mean the ward routine."

"Just tell the doctor that I'm waiting for him, okay?"

Patrick had found his watch on top of the dresser. Assuming it was keeping accurate time, the noise of a cart being wheeled down the hall came just before eight o'clock. Outside his door, things were much louder now. Patients were obviously up and around, talking and making noise.

Patrick was startled to hear someone bang on the other door to the toilet.

"Unlock the damn door!"

It was a woman shouting at him. Patrick jumped up from where he'd been sitting on the edge of his bed and hurried over to the toilet. Inside, the opposite doorknob was rattling violently.

"Hold on," Patrick pleaded. "I'm sorry! I'll get it."

He twisted the doorknob himself, causing the push-in lock to pop back open. A scowling, fat woman in a cotton nightgown yanked the door open. Blushing helplessly, Patrick backed his way out of the toilet chamber and closed his door.

It's got to be a mistake, he thought as he listened to what sounded like diarrhea landing into the toilet bowl. Get me out of here!

Patrick had left the door to the hallway slightly ajar as if that would hurry Dr. Kearney along. Now he pushed it shut and got back into bed. Lying there, he covered his eyes with his right forearm, occasionally lifting it to check his watch.

A little past 8:20, someone knocked on the door.

"Come in," Patrick said hopefully.

This time a big, tall man came into the room. He was wearing a white shirt with red pin stripes and brown slacks. Like Brenda, the man was holding a clipboard. There was no further resemblance. Not only did he look like he was twice Brenda's size, his manner was much more relaxed. As a counterbalance to the professional wrestler's build, there was an open, boyish face and friendly eyes behind a pair of oval rimmed glasses.

"Dr. Kearney?" Patrick asked skeptically, sitting up.

The young man laughed loudly yet pleasantly. Patrick smiled despite his anxiety.

"Sorry. When you meet Dr. Kearney, I think you'll see why I thought that was so funny."

The big man walked over to the vacant bed. Patrick scooted back to the edge of his mattress to face this latest visitor.

"My name's Simon. I'm one of the counselors here."

He offered his hand and Patrick gave it a quick shake. Simon sat on the bare mattress and put the clipboard down next to him. Looking at the thing, Patrick noticed it wasn't the one with the ward keys.

"I... I want to see Dr. Kearney," Patrick insisted tremulously, glancing back up at Simon's face.

"Of course."

Patrick wondered whether Brenda had sent this colossus in to see him. He supposed that the overweight yet muscular Simon could be an enforcer for the hospital.

"He'll be in soon," Simon went on. "It so happens that Dr. Kearney gets in much earlier than Dr. Adams so you're in luck."

Patrick nodded although he didn't fully understand. Moreover, why was Simon here?

"Uh, did Brenda say that I didn't want to go to the meeting?"

Simon nodded. He was holding the edge of the mattress with both hands, arms spread apart. The plastic squeaked under Simon's weight.

"Are you here to talk me into going?"

"I'll try," Simon replied, smiling. "But first, I wanted to introduce myself. I'm going to be your primary contact person while you're here."

"Primary contact person?" Patrick echoed.

"That means anytime I'm in duty here you'll be assigned to me. Otherwise, you'll report to a different counselor when I'm off. We post an assignment sheet out near the entrance so you can check that each shift."

"Oh? I didn't see it."

"Hasn't been posted yet," Simon nodded. "You'll see it on the bulletin board next to the shower room. Like I said, I'm assigned to you whenever I'm working. I'm on Dr. Kearney's treatment team. If you have any questions or concerns, you can come to me first or whoever else is listed by your name on the assignment sheet. If you can't find your contact counselor, ask any of us – or one of the nurses."

"Oh."

"Gloria is Dr. Kearney's team nurse," Simon elaborated. "I'll introduce you to her in a few minutes. See if we can catch Rachel while we're at it; she's the head nurse."

"All right," Patrick muttered. "So, uh, Simon, you're a counselor? Like Brenda? What does that mean? Are you guys therapists, or something?"

Simon smiled slightly and shook his head.

"You know what we are? We're something like attendants, like the guys in white starched shirts and black bow ties like you see in the movies, except we don't have uniforms. Even the nurses wear street clothes. We just aren't allowed to wear jeans. But anyway, I'm really something more than an old-fashioned attendant; counselors here listen to patients' concerns and write nursing notes. Team counselors like me have to report to our team nurses and the psychiatrists."

Patrick listened impatiently, still frustrated over his predicament going unexplained.

"Did Brenda tell you this is a voluntary ward?" Simon asked.

Patrick shrugged; maybe she had said so while he hadn't been listening too closely.

"She really didn't tell me much," Patrick sighed. "Listen. Why am I here? What did I _do_? I'm thinking this is all some big mistake."

Simon started to say something but caught himself.

"What?" Patrick asked desperately. "I... I'm scared I did something bad..."

"I'll have to let Dr. Kearney fill you in on the details," Simon told him. "But don't worry. You didn't harm yourself or anyone else. It all started as a kind of protective custody. But you're safe here."

"Safe..."

Suddenly, Patrick thought of the DEA agents out there. Maybe they'd leave him alone while he was in the hospital. Unless. Unless they were spying on him in here, too. Anything was possible.

"As I was saying," Simon spoke up, reaching for the clipboard, "this is a voluntary ward. Upstairs, that's the secure ward. I know your privacy is pretty limited here but you'd have a lot more freedom as a voluntary patient."

Patrick gaped slightly. What was Simon getting at?

"As of this moment, you're still here under commitment, what we call a pink paper."

"I've been _committed_?" Patrick gasped, the signing of the Drug Emergency Act replaying in his imagination.

"It's mostly a formality," Simon replied calmly. "Mainly has to do with ambulance transport from the city hospital emergency room. I'm asking you to sign this conditional voluntary form."

And he held out the clipboard. If a pink sheet meant commitment, here was a plain white form full of typescript. A line with an "X" next to it was at the bottom. A ball-point pen was pinned under the metal clip. Patrick took hold of the board.

"W-what if I don't sign?" Patrick asked, looking up from the form.

"Not to scare you," Simon said quietly, hands on his knees, "but you'd have to be transferred. Either upstairs or, if they don't have an open bed, off to a state facility. But signing yourself in is no big deal. Everyone else is in here voluntarily. If you'd rather think about it first, maybe you could ask some of the other patients about signing this form."

"Or I could ask Dr. Kearney?"

"Of course. But I don't think you'd like it upstairs. The windows are barred and you aren't allowed to have shoelaces. It's also smaller, more closed-in."

Patrick shuddered. Simon's description sounded like what he would have expected a psycho ward to look like before Patrick had ended up here – on the voluntary ward. He realized that Simon was pressuring him however subtly. Maybe the big ox was afraid to face the head nurse without having Patrick's signature on the white form. Patrick tried not to smile as he considered this possible leverage.

"If I'm here voluntarily, doesn't that mean I can sign myself out of the hospital too?"

"Yeah, but look on the form. It says something about – "

"I see it," Patrick murmured.

There was some language about his attending physician having the reserved right to delay a discharge for up to three days, giving the doctor the chance to petition for commitment.

"Oh, shit," Patrick reacted. "God, thanks for telling me!"

"If you want to leave before Dr. Kearney schedules a discharge, you sign a form officially notifying us you want to be released within three days."

"Does anyone ever do that?"

"Sure, once in a while," Simon nodded, leaning back a little. "Usually, they end up changing their minds and withdraw the notice. Sometimes..."

Patrick looked up from the form when Simon paused.

"...they just go home."

After a moment, Patrick picked up the pen and scratched his name into the space by the "X" and handed the clipboard back to Simon as if the object was hot to the touch.

"Now," Simon said as he stood up, "how 'bout putting in an appearance at the assembly?"

"I... I don't know," Patrick answered, feeling very tired all of a sudden.

"Just fifteen, twenty minutes out of your day," Simon persisted, standing over him.

"I... I've never been in one of these places before."

"I understand."

"I don't know what to expect."

"Like life in general," Simon replied softly. "But it's safer in here, I promise."

Patrick didn't know whether he could believe that. However, it occurred to him that Dr. Kearney might appreciate it if he was cooperative. Brenda had already said that going to assembly was part of his treatment. They couldn't commit him involuntarily for being cooperative, now could they?

CHAPTER 2:

THE VIRGIN

When Patrick headed back to the day room, he saw that three long tables had been carried out into the hallway. Patients were walking here and there, gradually filtering in for the assembly. Evidently, no one wanted to lose their privileges.

Inside the room, Patrick saw that the various plastic chairs had been arranged into a haphazard circle. Several patients were already seated, some of them holding cups of instant coffee. He saw the man with the dyed-red hair standing near the bookcase. He was holding the clipboard that had the ward keys. So he was another counselor.

The counselor turned and saw Patrick. He smiled and walked over.

"You must be Patrick." The voice had a nasal intonation.

"Yes," Patrick nodded as they shook hands.

"I'm Frank, one of the counselors here. Are you starting to feel settled in?"

"Uh... not yet."

Frank broke into a grin.

"An honest answer is certainly appreciated. Well, take a seat anywhere. We're about to get started."

Patrick eyed a folding chair near one of the sofas. But then he recognized his angry neighbor from the toilet chamber altercation that morning. She was sitting on the sofa but didn't appear to notice him. Patrick diverted himself to a chair with its back up against the counter.

He wondered if Frank was gay. Why would a straight guy dye his hair to such an obviously phony shade of red? Maybe Frank was just weird, not necessarily queer. Of course he could be both. It was a free country.

"Hey, man!" The voice was loud and excited.

Patrick looked in the direction the shout had come from, seeing a short, blond man who seemed to be Patrick's age striding up. This was obviously a patient; he stared at Patrick as if they knew each other.

"My name's Charley," he exclaimed, holding out his hand. "Charley Doolan!"

"I'm Patrick Coyne."

"Coin?" Charley grinned. "You a penny or a silver dollar?"

Before Patrick could explain the spelling of his name or even try to join in on the joke, the other patient was giving him a crushing handshake. Charley's head was squarish, mounted on a short neck above similarly squarish shoulders. The overall impression Patrick got was of somebody blunt, compact, and powerful. Above all, Charley was bursting with energy.

Patrick's new friend bounded into the seat next to him.

"It's cool seein' someone my own age around here," Charley declared.

"I guess so."

"Saw you when they brought you in last night," Charley continued. "Man, you were out of it! Glad to see you're wide awake now."

"Thanks."

"So who's your doctor?"

"Kearney, they tell me."

"Hey, great!" Charley reacted, slapping Patrick's shoulder. "Me, too! What about your primary? Who'd you get?"

"Simon."

Another slap on the shoulder.

"See! We just met and we already got two things in common!"

"Right."

Patrick wasn't annoyed by Charley, despite his stinging shoulder. He was grateful for the distraction coming from Charley's aggressive friendliness.

"So," Patrick asked, "do you like having Dr. Kearney and Simon?"

"Oh, yeah-yeah-yeah-yeah!" Each "yeah" was punctuated by a nod. "They're both nice, nicest guys on the staff."

Patrick glanced around the room. The seats were almost full and the wall clock was reading 8:28.

"Ever been in a state hospit-hole?" Charley asked.

"No," Patrick replied, taking a moment to understand what Charley had meant. "This is my first... hospitalization."

"A fucking virgin!" Charley laughed.

Patrick felt himself blush. He kept looking at Charley so that he wouldn't see any other patients' reactions.

"Virgin!" Charley repeated. "I'll show you the ropes, man. Simon's okay. He's cool but he's staff. Only so much he can tell you or else they take his keys away, right? You want the straight shit? Let me be your guide."

"Sure, why not?"

"Ask me anything about this place; this is my second time here. Last time, I was here for _three fucking weeks_!"

"Charley, please!"

Patrick looked over to see Brenda, who had spoken up. Frank was handing her the clipboard.

"What?" Charley asked.

"You know _what_ ," Brenda said, Frank standing calmly beside her. "Watch that mouth of yours. Don't make me tell you again."

"Okay, okay," Charley sighed.

Frank and Brenda separated, Brenda disappearing out into the hall.

"That one's Brenda," Charley said in as close to a whisper as he could manage.

"I know. I met her already."

"She's not so bad, really, but I think she's a dyke."

Patrick resisted the temptation to share his suspicions about Frank, especially since he was still in the room with them. So Patrick changed the subject.

"Are we the only ones here under twenty-five?"

"No," Charley answered with a leer. "There's this one chick who's nineteen."

"Good-looking?"

"Oh, _yeah_! Real tall, legs like you never saw! Looks like a... an effin' model, man. Name's Justine. Hardly notices _me_ at all."

"Too bad."

"You'll see her in a second. Always gets in right before they shut the door."

Simon strode into the room at a brisk pace. He was carrying a notebook and three sheets of paper. Simon cracked a wry smile when he noticed Patrick sitting next to Charley.

Right behind Simon came four more staff members, three of them women. One was Gloria, Dr. Kearney's team nurse. Patrick also recognized Rachel, the head nurse, from introductions Simon had made just after Patrick signed the conditional voluntary. Gloria was older than Rachel and had dark hair with strands of gray. Rachel was blond, chubby, and voluptuously built. When he'd first seen her, Patrick had a passing desire to sit in Rachel's lap and rest his head on the nurse's bust.

Simon gave the notebook to a lean, middle-aged man and the papers to none other than Linda. Then he went to close the day room doors.

"Wait, wait!" The demand came from a shrill voice in the hall.

Simon stepped aside and in walked a patient who had to be Justine. She was wearing a green pullover shirt and tight designer jeans. Her legs seemed endless; Patrick noticed a gold anklet above her right foot.

He watched her sit on a metal folding chair off to his right. Her face wasn't terribly gorgeous but it was pretty in a girl-next-door sort of way. Her complexion was almost as bad as his own. Justine crossed her legs and looked bored.

"Thursday, June 11th, 1987," Linda recited loudly.

Patrick looked away from Justine before she could catch him ogling her. He tried to pay attention to the assembly proceedings.

"Discharges today, none," Linda continued. "Admissions, one. Patrick Coyne."

She looked up from the paper and sought him out in the crowd. Linda smiled at him when he raised his hand.

"There you are," she said.

"What brings you here, Patrick?" The question came from the male staff member Patrick hadn't been introduced to yet.

"I... I wish I knew," Patrick muttered. "I lost some time... You know, like amnesia."

"That happened to me once," a massive patient commented; he had a walrus mustache and a figure to match.

Patrick fidgeted in his seat, feeling as though everyone was staring at him.

"Is there any way we can help you while you're here?" Rachel asked.

Patrick shrugged, then shook his head. He tried to will the assembly on to some other topic.

"I'm sure everyone here will do what they can to help," Simon spoke up. "Don't be afraid to ask."

Patrick smiled weakly. Somebody said "welcome". This was followed by several other voices repeating the same word. Patrick stole another glance at Justine, finding her eyes focused right back into his – a thrilling shock. Was she interested in him? Patrick wished his experience with women hadn't been so absurdly limited.

The meeting dragged on through the reading of the minutes, then a couple of announcements that didn't apply to Patrick, then a few petty complaints from some of the patients, and finally a reading of the group therapy sessions schedule and which patients were assigned to attend.

When the meeting broke up, Patrick lost sight of Justine in the highly animated crowd. Charley had started talking loudly to him again but he was too distracted to respond; it was more like hearing the whine of mosquito wings behind his ear than any actual words. Charley finally got Patrick's attention by pulling at his forearm.

"Huh?"

"Let's carry the tables back in! That's my chore this week."

"Oh, okay."

Simon noticed that Patrick was taking hold of one end of the table closest to the medication room.

"Charley," he said with mock-gravity, "that's no way to treat a new arrival."

"Oh, I don't care," Patrick said with an embarrassed grin. "Keeps my mind occupied."

Simon smiled and gave Patrick's shoulder a brief squeeze. Then he headed down the hall towards the staff office. Patrick lifted the table with Charley at the other end. He shuffled backward to the day room doorway.

"I remember the first assembly I was in," Charley was saying. "You know what _I_ told 'em when they asked how they could help me while I was in here?"

"Tell me."

"I said, 'Somebody get me a cheap lawyer!'"

Patrick laughed along with Charley as they put the table down at the bookcase end of the day room. Patrick's laughter was spontaneous and genuine.

"Moe Howard!" Patrick exclaimed.

"What?"

"You were quoting Moe Howard," Patrick explained. "You know, from The Three Stooges."

"Oh, yeah!" Charley beamed, turning back to the hallway. "Yeah. Must be where I heard it. Get me a cheap lawyer!"

"Hey, Charley."

"Yeah?"

"You see where that Justine went?"

Charley's face was full of delight.

"I knew you'd like her, man! She's down in the smoking room for sure!"

Simon Herbst was into his third year as a mental health counselor at Hillside Hospital. He had started out working as a security guard, posted at the front desk on the ground floor, covering the overnight shift. When the opportunity had come to shed his blue polyester tunic in favor of casual clothes and doing something more stimulating than sitting around bored all night, Simon took the plunge.

After eight months as a night shift counselor, he had been promoted to the day/evening rotation. Not long after that, Simon had his next promotion, to team counselor, all with the most rudimentary educational background in psychology: one introductory course before he'd flunked out of college at age twenty. But Rachel, who had been Dr. Kearney's team nurse at the time, had pushed for Simon's addition, telling the previous head nurse Simon was a "natural" in his compassionate interactions with the patients.

Simon looked up when Frank pulled the staff office door shut with a loud click. It could not be opened from the outside without a key. He went back to pouring himself a cup of coffee.

He and Frank took their seats at the table with Rachel, Gloria, and Tom the social worker. Brenda was out on the floor with the keys and clipboard, helping Hilda in getting patients their supplies. The board Brenda was holding also had the tracking form to document patients' whereabouts at least once per hour. As a new admission, Patrick was being accounted for every fifteen minutes on a separate form that would eventually be added to his medical records. Vera, the medication nurse, was preparing the nine o'clock dosages down in the dispensary.

The staff members sequestered in the office proceeded to dissect the events at the assembly. Sometimes Dr. Adams or Dr. Kearney would sit in on the assemblies and later offer their observations as well. But today, Dr. Kearney in particular was running a bit late. Simon felt sorry for Patrick, knowing how anxious his new primary patient was for a session. Patrick's medical chart was open in front of him on the table.

"Well, did you see that?" Gloria asked, looking at Simon.

"See what?"

"Better keep an eye on that new patient," she explained. "Justine Edwards was doing just that during the assembly."

"Great," Simon muttered, nervously re-reading Patrick's intake form.

"Doesn't she have a boyfriend already?" Frank asked.

"Frank, you were nineteen once," Gloria said, rolling her eyes, "remember that far back?"

"Oh, that's right," Frank grinned. "When _I_ was nineteen, yes, about the same time _you_ were pushing thirty."

But for Simon, memories of being that age were fresh: it was a mere five years back while he was still stumbling through college. Already having a boyfriend wouldn't always keep young girls chaste; at school, Simon had been "the other man" so many times, he could have earned a bachelor's degree in dysfunctional relationships.

Patrick had gone back to his room, having abandoned his notion to follow Justine; shyness had muffled his libido. Patrick went right back to sitting on his bed and staring at his wristwatch.

He still hoped that this was some big mistake. Just a case of drug-induced amnesia. He was okay now.

Patrick wanted badly to get released at least before the weekend. He lived out in Waltham in an apartment shared with his brother Scott. Scott was out of town, on a vacation from work until Monday. The shame of being shipped off to Hillside Hospital would have to be dealt with, of course. But so much the better if it was only after the fact.

Patrick had kept his fears hidden from Scott in order to protect him. Scott was probably safe from the secret agents of the DEA if he didn't know that they were following Patrick. Sooner or later, they might catch him but his brother had to be kept safe.

Then Patrick realized something. On the outside, he had been obsessed with the DEA. Barely a waking minute went by without his thinking about the spies. It didn't matter what he was doing, whether he was at work in the liquor store, at the movies, or in the middle of a conversation. He was always looking over his shoulder, figuratively if not literally.

Yet he had spent the whole ward assembly without worrying about the DEA. He had laughed about The Three Stooges with Charley and not considered his drug file. He had hoped Justine was flirting with him and not imagined a concentration camp bed with his name on it.

Was this really a safe place like Simon had claimed? In more ways than one – more than the counselor knew?

Around 9:30, Patrick finally met Dr. Robert Kearney. Simon led the doctor into Patrick's room, made a brief introduction for them, and went on his way. Dr. Kearney was about as big as Simon but was much older. His hair was snow-white and he had a friendly demeanor. He was also dressed more like a doctor than Simon, wearing a pale blue dress shirt, a navy blue tie with yellow stripes, and black slacks that barely concealed his girth.

"Let's talk in my office," Dr. Kearney suggested.

The office was small and narrow with barely enough room for the desk and a metal cabinet containing old patient files in manila folders. Patrick's own chart, in its three-ring binder, was sitting open on the desk. Dr. Kearney swiveled his high-back desk chair to face Patrick, who was sitting in a plastic modular chair that was almost touching the door.

"Well, Patrick, how are you feeling today?"

"Scared," he answered with no hesitation. "And, uh, confused. I still don't know how I got here. Eh-everyone's been telling me that _you_ have to explain that."

"Did they?"

Patrick nodded emphatically.

The doctor told him that he had been found by the police wandering through Central Square in Cambridge, babbling incoherently. Assuming he was on some sort of narcotic, they put him in a holding cell. Once his blood tests had came back negative for such substances, it was assumed that Patrick was having a psychotic break and was taken to a psychiatric emergency unit. Since that was only a temporary custodial facility, the staff made calls to find him a more permanent bed.

"That's how you ended up with us," Dr. Kearney concluded.

"It all seems so hard to believe," Patrick muttered, feeling an icy sort of fear. "I mean that I could've been though all that and not remember any of it."

"It's like hearing stories your parents tell you about things you did when you were one or two years old," Dr. Kearney suggested.

"Well, not exactly," Patrick said, hesitating before contradicting this authority figure. "I mean at least then you know that it happened a long time ago. It's not as scary as finding out you were doing something so... so strange just yesterday."

"Quite right."

"I guess I was hoping that this was all some kind of mix-up. Like I had amnesia or something. But – "

"But when you suffer from amnesia, your behavior is relatively normal. After a psychotic episode, the mind cannot readily adapt memory to relate to such behavior, perhaps for the best."

The word _psychotic_ resonated ominously.

"Couldn't it have been something else?"

"Like what?"

"Why not a drug?"

"Patrick..."

"No, I mean it! I'm thinking maybe LSD. I've heard stories about people taking acid and going crazy from it sometimes. Maybe somebody slipped me acid as joke... or to fuck me up on purpose."

Dr. Kearney took a short moment before responding. He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his belly.

"There is some controversy about this of course," he said, "but LSD has been claimed as a factor in certain cases of schizophrenia, much as you may have heard anecdotally. But there probably has to be a genetic predisposition to the illness in the first place before any narcotic could possibly trigger it."

"Is that what I have? Schizophrenia?"

"I haven't been able to make a formal diagnosis yet."

"But could that be the answer? Did my personality split so I did things I can't remember because I was someone else at the time? Could it have happened before?"

"Hold on, Patrick. First of all, schizophrenia has nothing to do with multiple personality disorder or 'split personality' as you put it. Schizophrenia is a detachment from reality coupled with paranoia. What's more, paranoia by itself doesn't necessarily imply a diagnosis of schizophrenia."

Vaguely reassured, Patrick relaxed his posture.

"Now, if I may, I'd like to get filled in on some gaps in your admission work," Dr. Kearney said, reaching for a legal-size notepad.

"Sure."

"As to your family..." The doctor paused to pull a pen from his shirt pocket.

"There's not many of us left."

"Not many?" Dr. Kearney asked, raising his white eyebrows.

"I mean I'm an orphan – sort of."

"Sort of? Could you explain that, please?"

"My mother's dead, died three years ago while I was in college."

"And your father?"

"As good as dead. He skipped out on us when I was two."

"There's been no contact with him?"

Patrick shook his head.

"Siblings?"

"Just my brother Scott. He's a couple years older than me. I live with him in Waltham."

"At the Granby Street address?"

"Uh-huh."

"Have you spoken with your brother since you were admitted?"

"No, he's out of town until Monday – or Sunday night, maybe."

Dr. Kearney nodded.

"When did you first notice a problem?"

"What d'you mean?"

"The feelings of paranoia. When did you start experiencing them?"

"But I'm not paranoid, doctor. I was obviously... unstable the other day but I'm better now."

Dr. Kearney gazed into Patrick's eyes, making Patrick self-conscious.

"You asked whether you were under arrest this morning. Why would you assume such a thing?"

"I don't know."

"Did your room look like a jail cell to you?"

"No."

"Have you committed any crimes?"

"Not that I can remember."

"If you're worried about what you did during your episode, you can relax," Dr. Kearney said. "There have been no charges filed against you and no cause for any to be filed. There is no rational reason to think you've been arrested. Committed, yes, but that was largely a formality."

"Yeah, Simon told me that much, anyway."

"So you say you aren't paranoid yet you thought you might have been locked up in here without cause."

"I didn't say 'without cause', I –"

Patrick stopped short. What if Dr. Kearney was a DEA agent himself? He could be a terrific actor. So open and unassuming, the kind of person you'd be eager to confide in. The office itself could be wired for sound. A panel truck out on the street could be picking up what they were saying.

"Yes, Patrick?"

But they already knew everything, anyway. And Dr. Kearney could be just as innocent as he looked. Having already compiled a full dossier on him, the DEA didn't need any more information. They'd simply wait him out until he was discharged. Then when Patrick was put on trial, federal prosecutors could discount his testimony by citing his mental condition. Even if Dr. Kearney let him go right now, the DEA would still have that on him.

"I think I'm being watched," Patrick whispered.

"Watched? Who's watching you?"

"The D... E... A."

"The what?"

"Drug Enforcement Agency. You know."

Dr. Kearney nodded.

"Are you a drug dealer, Patrick?"

"No, sir."

"Then why would the DEA be interested in you?"

"Because I use drugs. I mean I have used them. They keep records on us."

"How long do you think you've been watched?"

"I think they started getting preliminary information on me when I was in college."

"Where was that?"

"Which college?"

Dr. Kearney nodded.

"University of Massachusetts."

"That's a big campus, isn't it?"

"Sure."

"Must be a lot of drug users in the university; thousands of them."

"Yeah."

"It would have taken an enormous amount of manpower to keep surveillance on so many students, let alone millions of other drug users all over the country. Does that sound like a likely allocation of resources?"

"I don't mean they're watching every drug user in America," Patrick countered. "I mean they started out with some of us. You know, to make examples... like the Russians do."

"The Russians?"

"Yeah, those show trials and purges and things."

"So you're expecting to be put on trial like that?"

"I don't know what's going to happen. But there's something in the air. Can't you feel it? I mean they declared war on drugs last year; they're serious about doing something. You'll see something awful happen to the constitution. Reagan doesn't really care about drugs. It's all a pretext. But they have to put on a good show, don't you see? They'll make drugs seem so evil that ordinary citizens will give up their civil rights just to stop it all. Then Reagan can do whatever he wants."

"And what might that be, Patrick?"

"I... I don't know. Nuclear war?"

"So the president takes control of the country just so he can destroy it in a war? Does that make sense, Patrick?"

"It's just one possibility."

"One among many," Dr. Kearney said with a nod. "Some possibilities are much more likely than others. What we need to do is help you sort out your worst fears from what really is going on outside the hospital. Do you understand?"

"Yes, well, there's something else I should tell you."

"Please."

"I... I used to think about the DEA all the time. And I've been afraid to talk about it. Dr. Kearney, you're the first person I've told this to. I... I don't know how I've managed..."

Dr. Kearney put the note pad back on the desk and closed the chart. Patrick figured that the session was almost over so he hurried to make his point.

"Why don't I feel so obsessed by it now?'

"It could be the Thorazine they gave you in the emergency room," Dr. Kearney said. "It's a major tranquilizer used to calm psychotic anxiety."

Patrick's shoulders drooped some more. His nascent relief was all thanks to some drug, after all. This was a bitter irony and he hated it.

"Have you prescribed Thorazine for me, then?" Patrick asked softly.

"Thorazine is a very powerful medication. It has side effects that make me reluctant to prescribe it on a long-term basis. It's also one of the older tranquilizers still in use. Nowadays, we have an array of medications that have milder and fewer side-effects."

"What kind of side-effects?"

"There can be neurological damage over several years; we have antidotes now in use but, unfortunately, you can see the consequences in some of our older patients."

Patrick sat up and clutched his knees.

"What are the... the symptoms?"

"Stiffness in the limbs, some loss of motor control."

Patrick nodded gravely. He now understood the state of a few of the patients he'd seen on the ward.

"And even with the newer medications, we have to be careful," Dr. Kearney added. "We'll have to monitor what we give you, watch for allergic reactions. Not to scare you, I hope you understand."

"Of course not," Patrick murmured, scared anyway.

"It's a matter of letting you know what the risks are," the psychiatrist said, "and to impress upon you that your treatment here will take time."

"How long?"

"The average stay is two weeks. Do you have any more questions, Patrick?"

Patrick shook his head. Dr. Kearney smiled and stood up.

"You'll be all right. I'll make sure of that."

CHAPTER 3:

SETTLING IN

"Where have _you_ been hiding?"

Patrick was startled by the question. Following his session with Dr. Kearney, he had quietly edged his way towards the smoking room for a possible second glimpse of Justine. The high-pitched, squeaky voice had come from behind him as he'd peered into the hazy little alcove.

Turning his head, Patrick got his next look at Justine. Now she was in close-up; he plain/pretty face, framed by long, light brown, wavy hair, was near enough for him to reach out and touch.

"Me?" Patrick blurted, taking a step away from her. "Uh, I was with m-my doctor."

"Yes, I _know_ ," Justine giggled, moving right up to him, eliminating the space he had just put between them and then some. "I saw you following him into his office. So you're Patrick – or is it Pat?"

"Patrick, please."

They shook hands at her initiative. Justine was not quick to disengage her long, slender fingers from his palm.

"Let's have a seat," she said, nodding towards the smoking room and tugging at his hand.

"Sure," Patrick said dreamily.

The walls had been yellowed by all the smoke that had ever clouded up the place. The institutional window wasn't built to open all the way and the summer breeze wasn't strong enough to dispel the cigarette smog.

Three other patients were already sitting around the room, puffing away. The fat, walrus-like man who'd related to Patrick's memory loss was in one corner. A small, emaciated, and brittle-looking woman was sitting opposite the short couch. On the couch, occupying the seat cushion nearer to the window was another woman, middle-aged and flabby, wearing a blue bathrobe.

The walrus introduced himself as Albert but said little else. The brittle woman said her name was Trudy while the third patient kept quiet as though lost in thought. Patrick sat on the couch next to her after Justine made it clear that she was piloting him towards that spot. Then she sat on the table next to the couch, right alongside Patrick, so that he had to look up to see her.

Patrick noticed that Justine gave a disdainful glare to the woman sitting next to him before pulling a cigarette from her pack. Patrick declined Justine's offer of the cigarette. Smiling, she lit it up for herself and crossed her legs; Patrick looked furtively at her anklet.

"So, you've got Doc... tor Kearney," Justine said after exhaling her first mouthful of smoke.

"That's right. How 'bout you?"

"I've got Adams," Justine answered with a scowl. "You're lucky. _My_ doctor's always talking down to me and he loves to hand out the pills."

Patrick didn't know what to say to that.

"Some of these staff get off on telling you what to do," Justine went on, flicking ashes into a sand-filled metal bucket next to Patrick's left foot.

"Simon seems pretty nice," Patrick suggested.

"He is," Albert spoke up from the corner.

Patrick glanced in his direction and then looked back up at Justine. She seemed annoyed by Albert's intrusion on their conversation.

"Well, yeah, Simon's pretty laid-back for a counselor," Justine allowed. "But push comes to shove, he'll boss you around, too. That's the bottom line around here. This your first stay at Hillside?"

"It's my first stay at any place like this," Patrick replied, hoping for more sympathy by now.

"Oh, real... ly?" Justine smiled. "I'll tell you what's what around here, don't worry."

Patrick laughed nervously.

"What?"

"You're the third person today who's told me that."

"Oh, yeah? Who else?"

"Simon... and then that guy Charley."

"Charley!" Justine exclaimed. "That airhead? No, you listen to me. I was in a real hospital before they sent me here. They can't fool me. I was at McLean – that's the number one mental hospital in the state."

"And they transferred you here?"

"Ran out of private insurance," Justine shrugged. "Life's a bitch, isn't it?"

"Yeah."

"You got any visitors coming in?"

"Not yet. My brother's out of town 'til Monday. I'll have to call him. Got no parents."

"My family doesn't even care about me."

Patrick shook his head in sympathy. He was feeling itchy from his scalp to his crotch and wondered how badly he was stinking.

"I... I think I should take a shower," Patrick remarked. "And shave, maybe."

"Don't let me stop you," Justine said with an encouraging smile. "Hey, where's your room?"

"Right across from the staff office," Patrick said as he started to stand.

"Yeah, they want to put you right up close to the office the first few days so they can watch you."

"I guess."

"My room's just around the corner," Justine said, pointing out the doorway, "right by the washing machine."

"Oh, okay."

"Only," Justine added as Patrick passed in front of her, "patients can't visit each other in their rooms."

Patrick stared at her. The idea of going into Justine's room hadn't occurred to him so far.

"Right," he muttered, blushing.

"I have to go to a group session soon," Justine said. "Let's have lunch together, okay? I get hungry when I miss breakfast."

"Me, too."

Hilda the ward clerk had given Patrick a robe to wear to and from his room along with a pair of foam-rubber slippers. The robe was so thin, it felt like it was made out of paper. At least it wasn't translucent.

It was a relief to feel clean again. Patrick had also been issued a set of green scrubs, the kind of lightweight garment nurses and doctors wore in medical facilities. The top had short sleeves and the bottom was fastened with a red string, sweatpants-style. Simon had gathered Patrick's sole set of clothes and put them in the wash during Patrick's shower.

Now he was trying to shave. To his mild surprise, Patrick had already been assigned a locker box where a safety razor and a travel-size can of shaving cream were being kept along with his wallet and apartment keys. Simon logged out the razor and cream can on yet another form carried on the big clipboard.

Next came the tricky part. Patrick had to try and make out his face in the shiny surface of the paper towel dispenser. Since the white foam was so obvious in the blurred image, he was able to make sense of where to drag the razor, managing to scrape the foam and hairs under it from his skin without cutting himself.

By the time Patrick returned the razor and shaving cream to Simon, it was time for lunch. The food trays were brought up on a cart and were stacked high, red covers fitting snugly into the green trays above and below them. Blue paper menus with patient surnames written on them stuck out from under the red covers. Yellow menus indicated special diets, usually meant for patients who had diabetes.

"You can choose your own menu for tomorrow," Simon told Patrick as he gave him the tray designated COYNE. "For now, you're stuck with a grilled cheese sandwich and waxed beans."

He removed the cover to show Patrick a meal that looked like something from a high school cafeteria.

"I don't mind," Patrick said. "I'll eat almost anything now, I'm so hungry."

"Even liver?"

"As long as it's cooked."

Justine waved him over to the far end of the table near the bookcase. She had either neglected to make a lunch choice or preferred grilled cheese anyway. Patrick barely had enough time to say hello to her when Charley hurried over to join them. He sat down across from Patrick, who was next to Justine. Close enough to touch her.

Justine seemed to be trying to pretend that Charley wasn't there. His chatter made it difficult but Patrick felt less self-conscious with the traction this third wheel was bringing to the conversation.

They traded information about their backgrounds. Patrick had been raised in Lincoln, having moved to the metro area after flunking out of college. His brother had actually graduated and was already established in Waltham when Patrick had needed a place to stay. After their mother died, Scott had inherited the family house only to sell it in order to finance his own computer business.

That venture had failed a year ago and Scott had been forced to work for a more successful entrepreneur. Patrick had been more or less along for the ride, working part-time in a neighborhood liquor store. But he figured he'd lose that job once the boss found out what had caused his absence from work this week.

Justine had been a student at what she referred to as a second-rate private college in Newton. She insisted that her inability to comply with unrealistic demands at school had caused vindictive parents, administrators, and doctors to classify her as mentally ill. She was being punished for asserting herself. But at least she had a boyfriend who loved her.

Patrick almost choked on a wax bean when he'd heard that.

As for Charley, he lived on a sheep farm up in Essex County and hadn't even graduated from high school. He had been working on the farm since then, living with his parents. When shepherd Charley decided to liberate his flock one day, the Doolan family secret was out in the open. Charley's first commitment to a state hospital had followed; this time he was at Hillside for cutting down a neighbor's roadside mailbox with a chainsaw.

It was a dull afternoon and evening for Patrick. Charley and Justine had their days planned out for them by now; activity and therapy groups gave them some measure of structure. They also had privileges to leave the ward on their own while Patrick was still restricted to the floor as part of the admission protocol, according to Simon. After the first couple of days, Dr. Kearney would surely write an order allowing Patrick to go downstairs – at least with staff escort.

It gave Patrick something to look forward to but until then he was still left with hours just sitting around the day room, watching TV. He gazed up at soap operas and talk shows, waiting for news bulletins. But there were no announcements of a sudden suspension of the Bill of Rights.

Not entirely reassured, Patrick watched the regular news broadcast for any hint of constitutional jeopardy. Not even Justine's company on the sofa could distract him before the hard-news segment was over. Then she was able to lure him back to the smoking room until supper time.

By then, Simon had already gone home. Before his shift ended at three o'clock, he had reported to Gloria on each of his assigned patients. Gloria would be passing the pertinent information along to the incoming evening shift staff in an oral report. As Dr. Kearney's team leader, she would also notify the psychiatrist if the counselors had uncovered anything remarkable about his patients.

Simon and Gloria had been sitting at the staff office table, the door closed for the sake of confidentiality. The counselor made his report after finishing up the progress notes for each of his assigned patients which would be added to their individual medical records.

"And she said the devil tells her what clothes to wear," Simon had reported, slouching in a cushioned chair. "If that's true, the devil has really bad taste!"

Gloria had grinned appreciatively. She was more experienced than any other nurse on the ward, Rachel included. Her sense of humor about clinical psychiatry was generally sardonic – it was a defense mechanism shared by most of the staff.

"That's it for Diana," Simon had declared, reaching for his coffee mug. "Now on to our new boy."

"Right," Gloria had nodded, preparing to write in an open notebook.

"He seems to be doing fine. He's been out and around the floor, keeping visible. At first, he was isolating in his room but that was before Dr. Kearney talked to him. Since then, Patrick cleaned himself up, had something to eat... and he's been making friends."

"Friends, huh?"

"I know what you mean," Simon had sighed. "But it's not only Justine. He's been very tolerant with Charley Doolan."

"That's nice."

"As for Justine, I haven't caught them touching each other or doing anything else inappropriate."

"Has Patrick been discussing his delusions?"

"Not with me."

"He gave Dr. Kearney an earful this morning," Gloria had said. "Very paranoid about government agents watching him, or something."

"Yeah, I heard a little about that from the good doctor. Oh, well. At least there's no bizarre behavior from him."

"He's on hourly tracking now, isn't he?"

"That's right. Did Dr. Kearney give him any privileges yet?"

"No, I just reviewed all the new orders," Gloria had replied as she wrote in her notebook. "Nothing in there for Patrick to have privs and Dr. Kearney's left for the day."

Simon had sipped his coffee and muttered: "Too bad."

"Well, if Patrick has a good night, we'll bring it up tomorrow morning."

"Great. I'd like to get him downstairs at least."

"And away from Miss Edwards?"

"Sure."

"He's starting on a trial of some new meds tonight," Gloria had said with a yawn. "Kind of tapering him onto it. I guess we'll just have to keep watching."

"That's our job, isn't it?"

Lights out came at eleven o'clock on weeknights. Unless special permission was granted, patients using their privileges independently were supposed to report back to the ward an hour before then.

Justine had come back up as late as she could. She knocked on Patrick's open door, distracting him from the old magazine he'd been reading.

"Hi," she said, leaning against the door frame. "About to go to sleep?"

"Getting there."

"I guess it's been a long day for you, huh?"

"Yeah."

"Want to sit up with me for my last cigarette?"

"You bet!" Patrick agreed, putting the magazine aside.

Although lights out was still a long while off, a good many of the patients had already retired for the night. It was quiet on the floor. Even Charley had disappeared. A couple of silent, older patients were sitting in the smoking room when Patrick and Justine got there. This time, they were able to sit together on the couch.

Patrick told Justine about having taken the first of his new pills at nine o'clock that evening. There it had been, in a little plastic cup that looked like a tiny shot glass. Patrick had popped the capsule and then chased it with an ounce of orange juice.

"Maybe that's my cure. Least I hope so."

"Yeah, well, they say it's all chemistry, anyway," Justine commented. "Get the right combination of fake chemicals with the natural ones in your brain and you can be normal."

She puffed angrily at her cigarette.

"I guess they're still looking for the pill that will make me kiss up to them."

"The staff?"

"The staff, my parents, store clerks... Anyone who wants to have power over me."

What about your boyfriend? Patrick wondered. What kind of controlling prick is he?

"Well, good luck to you," Justine said. "Maybe you'll get out of here before I do."

"Oh, I don't think so. I just got here."

"We'll see," Justine said, now smiling and tapping her knee against his.

Patrick was startled into silence. But the tap had been a very light touch, as much a suggestion of sisterly friendship as anything else. He crossed his arms in his lap.

"You'll be all right," Justine elaborated. "Kearney's generous with the privileges. Next week you'll be taking walks all by yourself. Trust me."

"Okay."

"So-o-o-o, Patrick, you never told me, do you have a girlfriend on the outside?"

"Uh, no," he mumbled, thinking that Justine should have realized he was alone since he hadn't mentioned any girl.

"Well, why the hell not?"

Why the hell not, indeed? Patrick thought back to some of the other women he'd lusted after. Justine's predecessors. College was supposed to be a time for wild, uncommitted sex, or so Patrick had been told. But every time he seemed even remotely likely to have a fling – even so much as a kiss – a nagging fear held him back.

What if she was a DEA agent? Not that premarital sex was illegal... yet. But what if one of these young women had been sent to worm her way into his confidence? Manipulated him into some real trouble? He could be framed as a dope dealer, as anything.

It had been safer to keep his distance.

But how to explain that to Justine? Patrick didn't want her to think he was a paranoid weirdo. But at least she probably wasn't a provocateur. Just provocative in a sexy way.

"I... I'm shy," Patrick told her.

"You don't seem shy to me," Justine replied, smiling at him and tapping their knees together once more.

Patrick's thighs tingled but he braced himself for what he expected was to come next: Justine would remind him that she had a boyfriend.

But she didn't. Justine finished her cigarette and stood up.

"So I guess this is bedtime," she said.

"I guess."

"Walk me to my door."

Patrick got to his feet very quickly. A few second later they were standing by the washing machine, out of sight from the smoking room.

"I was so glad to meet you today," Justine told him softly.

"Same here," Patrick murmured. "I mean I'm sorry we both have to be..."

Justine was looking past him, back down the hall. Wondering what she could be looking at, Patrick turned his head. The corridor was entirely empty, although it looked like the staff office door was open. He could hear the TV in the day room, the sound faint in the distance.

Patrick turned back to look at her. The girl was so tall that she was able to kiss him easily, planting her lips right on Patrick's although she'd kept them pursed.

"Good night, cutie," Justine whispered, backing towards her door.

CHAPTER 4:

BETWEEN FRIENDS

Patrick never even knew that he had been shifted from fifteen minute to hourly tracking. But because of that, he was able to fantasize about Justine and not be disturbed. He had wiped himself off and fallen asleep before a counselor on the second shift peeked into his room at eleven o'clock.

The next morning, Patrick knew where he was when he woke up. He felt no anxiety at first, hurrying along to shower and dress before breakfast. Fear caught up with him, however. Patrick was just about to walk down to the day room when trepidation kicked in.

Patrick was willing to believe that Hillside Hospital wasn't a concentration camp. But what if it was something else? Maybe he was really on an elaborate soundstage, a TV studio. It could be like one of those _Mission: Impossible_ episodes where everything was fabricated to trick the villains.

"Trick you into doing what?" He could imagine Dr. Kearney asking him that. Of course, the so-called doctor was just an actor, anyway. They'd found someone like Will Geer, a Grandpa Walton type, to put Patrick off guard just so he'd confess. "Confess to what, Patrick?"

That was the terror of it! Patrick had nothing to confess. But the DEA officials assumed that he did have some hidden crime that they'd somehow managed to miss despite all the years of spying. They had already tried the soft way, using the approachable "Dr. Kearney" and "Simon the Counselor". Hadn't the old man asked whether Patrick had committed a crime?

That there was nothing to tell was not what the DEA would ever believe. They'd turn to torture next.

But no, that was craziness. They wouldn't do _that_ , would they?

Patrick breathed deeply and gingerly took hold of the doorknob. It was all right: this was a _real hospital_ , not some fake set for the movies or TV. If anything, he'd be safe from the DEA in here; as a harmless and helpless little psych patient, Patrick wouldn't be a threat to anyone.

He had waffles for breakfast, sitting with Charley at the far end again. Justine was skipping breakfast; neither of them had seen her so far that morning. It occurred to Patrick that having claimed this end of the table as theirs was something like the enclaves that always sprung up in school cafeterias.

Patrick watched Simon for a moment. He was standing by the kitchen cart, chatting with another counselor named Kris. Patrick had met her during the evening shift, having been assigned to her after Simon had checked out for the day. Kris was a chubby yet solid-looking young woman with frizzy black hair. One of the reasons Patrick had been assigned to Kris was that she also worked on Dr. Kearney's treatment team.

While Kris had been more confident than Brenda, she wasn't as friendly as Simon. Patrick had also observed Kris handling Justine very firmly at one point; his new friend had actually backed down.

Although Patrick knew better than to expect to see Justine prior to the ward assembly, he was so eager to speak with her that he barely tasted the waffle morsels in his mouth. Either speak to Justine or – still better – have another kiss. But it would be hard to get the girl alone for either prospect during the busy day shift.

The ward assembly was easier for him this time. Patrick was no longer the center of attention, not even for a moment. Justine arrived a bit earlier than she had on Thursday but there had already been so few chairs available that she didn't sit next to Patrick. He had been too shy to save a seat for her.

The most significant difference between this assembly and yesterday's was that a patient was leaving instead of arriving. The patient being discharged was a woman named Colleen. Patrick had been only barely acquainted with this patient and watched her group farewell without emotion.

Later, during the reading of the groups schedule, he heard his name spoken twice. He was assigned to two activity groups, one at ten in the morning and the other at three in the afternoon. Simon took Patrick aside after the assembly to let him know that Dr. Kearney had come through with basic privileges for him.

"That means I can take you downstairs if you like," Simon explained. "And maybe outside, if you feel up to it."

"Uh, not now," Patrick mumbled.

"Okay, fine. I'll just show you the snack bar. Five vending machines and a microwave..."

"I... I mean I'd rather stay up here for now."

Simon couldn't hide his disappointment. His eager smile collapsed and his shoulders drooped slightly.

"Well, if you change your mind, let me know."

Patrick nodded, too distracted to give the big counselor a more emphatic reply. There was still a possibility that a DEA agent might be staking out the hospital lobby, for one thing. For another, Patrick didn't want to miss the chance for another stolen moment with Justine because Simon was showing him how to operate a candy machine.

Thanks to Simon, he had already been diverted long enough to lose Justine in the crowd for the second day in a row. Now Charley was at his elbow, wanting him to help carry the tables back into the day room.

Looks like I'm finding a routine here, Patrick thought wryly.

The dispensary nurse gave him another pill during the nine o'clock medication schedule. He met Justine in line for the window, politely letting her go first.

Justine had explained that she had been washing her hair and otherwise getting ready to use her high-level privileges. She congratulated Patrick on getting his first step up the privilege ladder.

"You're on the way," Justine said.

Patrick felt frustrated. Not only could he not ask Justine about the kiss out in the pill queue, the kisser herself was hardly giving any indication that it had happened.

Maybe she's a good actress, he considered. She's obviously done a lot more kissing than I have. She also knows better than to show it in front of everybody. So relax...

Patrick tried to simply admire Justine's body instead. This time, she was wearing black denim and a tight T-shirt. Her waist and hips were narrow and her ass was small yet shapely. Something about that flat chest was attractive, perhaps because it went so naturally with the rest of Justine's skinny build.

As Justine was taking her pills, Patrick looked at the weight scale over to their left. It was next to a classroom chair used for taking blood pressure readings. The chair had one of those little folding tables built onto it where a patient could rest his or her arm while the blood pressure cuff pumped up.

But Patrick was more interested in the scale. He wondered if he could cajole Justine into letting him see just how underweight she actually was. Maybe they could weigh each other.

I'll show you mine if you show me yours...

"Here you go, Patrick," the medication nurse said, interrupting his modest fantasy.

He swallowed the single pill and turned to see Justine smiling at him as she stood by the exam chair. The moment Patrick took a step away from the dispensary window, he was startled by the noise of a pay phone ringing. Justine walked over to answer it so Patrick followed her.

"Hello?"

Patrick leaned against the other phone.

" _Who_?" Justine asked, her tone rude. "No, there's no Chester here. Yeah, I'm sure! You called Hillside Hospital, understand? The psych ward! Yeah, I'm a God-damned, raving lunatic! But you're just a dumb asshole!"

She banged the receiver down hard enough to make Patrick jump. Her outburst caught the attention of Kris the counselor, who had just rounded the corner.

"Justine," she said loudly but calmly, "do you need to cool off in your room for a while?"

"No!"

"Lower your voice, please."

"Hey, I can't help it if I got upset! Somebody just made an _obscene_ phone call!"

"Is that so?" Kris asked skeptically.

"Yes!" Justine insisted shrilly. "We need to be protected from shit like that, not called _liars_!"

"You're upset, that's for sure," Kris said, approaching them. "All I'm saying is that you should take some time to calm down. Just fifteen minutes in your room. Can you do that?"

Justine didn't answer.

"If I have to ask again, it'll be one hour in your room instead," Kris warned her. "And we may have to consider suspending your privileges for the rest of the shift."

She reached out to touch Justine's elbow but the patient dodged her fingers.

"I can walk!" Justine snapped, then proceeded to march down the hallway.

Kris followed her at a brisk pace, keeping a discreet distance between them. Patrick was so frustrated, he felt like kicking the wall. He checked his watch to see how long it would be before he would have another chance to speak with Justine. Patrick could at least be sure of where to find her. He'd be in the smoking room by 9:25.

"New admission coming in," Rachel said after hanging up the phone in the staff room.

Her colleagues, Gloria and Stacey, looked up from the charts on the table. Stacey was Dr. Adams's team leader. She was a short, impish woman whose age fell exactly between Gloria and Rachel's. Stacey had long, dark hair and her head was big in proportion to her small-shouldered upper body.

All three nurses had worked the day shift together for over two years, since Rachel had been Dr. Kearney's team leader and Gloria was in charge of the dispensary. Rachel and Gloria's reassignments had come only four months ago when the previous head nurse resigned. Gossip among the voluntary unit counselors indicated that while Gloria had been indifferent to the notion of becoming head nurse, Stacey had coveted the position. But she wasn't even interviewed since hers was an associate degree in nursing while Rachel and Gloria had bachelor's degrees. Another assumed obstacle for Stacey was her own sarcastic attitude, which had annoyed the director of nursing all too often.

Rachel had no love for the hospital's administration herself but was more circumspect than Stacey. Just how much Stacey resented being passed over for the job was something she kept to herself but she didn't seem to blame Rachel for it.

"New admission, huh?" Stacey asked. "Is it a repeat?"

"I'm not sure," Rachel answered, looking at the notes she'd taken during the admission coordinator's call. "Does the name Anthony Gingarella ring a bell?"

"Wasn't he that big, dumb kid who thought he was getting mescaline at the dispensary?"

"Maybe," Rachel said, still reviewing her notes as she approached the table. "The age looks about right... twenty-two. But he's not completely ambulatory. The guy you're thinking of was able to walk just fine."

"Gingarella's handicapped?" Gloria asked.

"Suicide attempt," Rachel said, taking her seat. "Jumped in front of a bus earlier this year."

"Maybe he came down from the mescaline," Gloria suggested.

Stacey laughed out loud while Rachel grinned. Then she looked to the bulletin board and read the list of treatment team patient assignments.

"Looks like Adams has an opening."

"Thanks a lot," Stacey said with a scowl.

"What's wrong with Gingarella?" Rachel asked.

"Yeah, he wasn't so bad," Gloria added.

"It just sounds like we have some serious medical issues with him, that's all."

"Well," Rachel said, consulting her notes once again, "according to the intake, he's not totally disabled. He can walk short distances but he usually prefers to use a wheelchair."

"Prefers?" Gloria echoed. "What does that mean?"

"Not sure. That's what the referral source said, apparently."

"He's still going to need extra medical attention," Stacey persisted. "I guess we have to take him but I'm not looking forward to it."

"Assign him to Frank," Rachel suggested. "You know how he loves a project."

That seemed to be enough to reconcile Stacey to the Gingarella admission. He could keep Frank busy and out of her hair, as Rachel had implied. Stacey leaned back in her chair and reached over to the bulletin board for the team assignment form.

Before the admissions coordinator came up from her second-floor office with the telephone intake form, Simon wandered into the room to join the nurses.

"Gingarella's back," Gloria told him.

"Who?" Simon asked, edging past Rachel's chair to the patient chart shelves.

"You remember him, don't you? From last year, the kid who thought we were giving him mescaline."

Simon shook his head.

"That guy's name was Gianello, not Gingarella."

"So who's Gingarella?" Stacey asked with a confused frown.

"Hell, I don't know," Simon responded, pulling out one of the three-ring binders. "Why, was he supposed to have been here before?"

"We're waiting for the full report," Rachel said, looking up at him over her shoulder. "Sheila seemed to think he had."

"Maybe he was on the secure ward," Simon speculated. "Or he could've been here back when I worked nights and he didn't make an impression on me."

"What time is he due in?" Stacey asked.

"Before the shift ends, anyway," Rachel told her.

"I hope they run a little late," Simon declared, looking up from the open chart he was holding.

"Why?" Stacey asked.

"'Cause I hate processing admissions. They're depressing. Discharges, I enjoy."

"Relax," Gloria said. "He's being assigned to the Adams team. We'll leave it to Frank."

"I like that," Simon chuckled. "So this Gingarella's going into Patrick's room?"

"Actually," Rachel said, "now that you mention it, we'd better figure out the room assignments. I think we'll be moving Patrick. The new guy needs some closer attention and probably should have a room to himself."

Simon watched as Stacey pulled the floor plan from the bulletin board. Then he looked over Rachel's shoulder as she and Stacey examined it. The head nurse picked up a pencil.

"We'll just put Mr. Gingarella in here," Rachel said, writing the surname in the box indicating the room across the hall. "And," she continued, erasing Patrick's name, "we'll put Mr. Coyne in here."

Rachel wrote "Coyne" in the box representing the bedroom next to the staff office.

"His new roommate will be Fred Dawson. Does that work?"

"Sounds fine," Simon replied with a nod.

Fred was a thin, middle-aged alcoholic who had been transferred up from the detoxification ward on the second floor. His was a "dual diagnosis" of acute alcoholism and depression, as if the two might otherwise be unrelated.

"Patrick ought to like it," Gloria remarked. "He won't feel like we're keeping such close tabs on him."

"As long as you don't move him next door to Justine Edwards," Stacey warned them.

"It might give them a challenge on the third shift," Simon responded.

"Why'd you kiss me?" Patrick whispered to Justine furtively.

It seemed worth the risk. The only other patient in the smoking room just then was Trudy. And she looked preoccupied, sitting and rocking at the edge of her chair, a cigarette clutched fast in her right hand.

"Oh," Justine giggled in reply to his question. "I kiss all my friends."

"You do?"

"Yeah," she said, exhaling a cloud of smoke. "I mean, it's not like the way I kiss Todd."

"Your boyfriend."

Justine nodded.

"Do you kiss your female friends, too?"

"Ewww! Don't be gross!" Justine wrinkled the bridge of her nose. "I only kiss guys."

Patrick's head was swimming. He clasped his hands together over his knees and stared down at the linoleum.

"You... must enjoy kissing."

"Well, _duh_! I even kiss Todd's brother. Hey, don't feel bad. I don't kiss just _anybody_ , Patrick. Only guys I really like. Only..."

Justine nudged his knee with hers.

"...the good-looking guys."

Patrick looked into her pale face and allowed himself to smile.

"Well," Justine said, "I'm going out for a walk. Gonna buy some more smokes. You want anything?"

"No, thanks."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. I'm almost broke, anyway."

"Don't worry. It'd be my treat. I mean, within reason. You want something sweet?"

Yeah, another kiss, Patrick thought desperately. But he couldn't say it out loud.

"M-maybe some real coffee?"

"No sweat, cutie."

"Thanks," Patrick murmured, suddenly too nervous to keep looking at her.

He stared at Trudy instead, taking in her stiff posture and bright eyes. How many years had she been taking the potent medication Dr. Kearney had warned him about? And was the stuff cruising through his own bloodstream really that much safer? Patrick wanted something to drink. But food and drink were forbidden outside the day room, which now seemed so far away.

"Patrick?"

He snapped his head over towards the doorway. There was Frank, holding a sheet of paper.

"Yeah?"

"You've got occupational therapy group," the counselor told him, "starting right now."

"Oh, right," Patrick sighed, looking at his watch.

"Go on," Justine said, dropping her cigarette into the sand bucket. "I want to get going on my walk, anyway."

CHAPTER 5:

KEEPING OCCUPIED

Patrick was reunited with his second-favorite patient when he walked into the OT room. Charley was grinning at him from the big table in the middle of the room. This was Patrick's first look inside the place. There was a set of picture windows with a panoramic view of the hill across the street. A church was on top of the hill and the hospital parking lot spread out below it.

There was a kiln over in one corner and several rows of cabinets, mostly closed and presumably locked. Unfinished ceramic projects were sitting on a two-shelf table. There was a sink and a paper towel dispenser on the counter opposite the windows. Drawings and watercolors were taped up here and there on available wall space.

Erin the occupational therapy assistant introduced herself to him. She had to monitor the room while Frank chased down the straggling patients scheduled to attend. Erin was lovely, Patrick thought. Her hair was long, red, and thick; she had smooth fair skin and blue eyes. Erin was wearing a kind of hippie-style blouse with a long, flowing skirt. She seemed to be only a few years older than Patrick and Charley.

Patrick became fixated on those blue eyes, nicely complemented by Erin's rosy, apple cheeks. Erin smiled at Patrick as she set art supplies on the table and he shyly looked away, only dimly aware of Charley's manic chatter.

Erin hushed Charley when the final participant arrived. Then she worked to maintain everyone's attention on her instructions, which were simple enough. For the next half-hour, Patrick and the other six patients sketched on large, thick sheets of paper, using charcoal pencils.

Charley was so energetic that he couldn't come up with a subject and drew a jagged-lined, abstract mess. Patrick drew a seascape with thick, black clouds overhead and a lonely, vulnerable lighthouse on the rocky shore. The ocean was roiling and Patrick had detailed white caps on the plethora of waves. A crashing wave tossed up sea spray in the foreground.

"Hurricane's coming," Patrick commented in response to Erin's question. "Hurricane Ronnie."

When Patrick asked if he could keep the drawing, Erin had said she would save it for him in the OT room until his discharge day. He could pick his seascape up then if he still wanted it. Patrick had nodded, understanding that Erin and her colleagues would want to interpret the subconscious expression that had come through his sketch.

He went to find Justine, hoping she would come through with his coffee. After a false start in the smoking room, Patrick remembered that if Justine had brought coffee up onto the ward, she would have had to take it into the day room.

No such luck. On the other hand, Patrick found a copy of the current edition of the Boston _Globe_. Sometimes the staff tossed a copy to the patients after they were done reading it. None of them seemed to read the tabloid _Herald_ , although some patients sometimes brought back copies of it when they returned from using their privileges.

Patrick preferred the _Globe_ , anyway. He didn't trust the rival paper's conservative editorial slant. The DEA obviously influenced the content; sometimes the sensational _Herald_ headlines screamed anti-drug propaganda.

He settled into one of the sofas and pored over the news section of the paper, checking stories for references to anything like the feared Drug Enforcement Act, or whatever they chose to call it. No word of any such legislation being proposed so far although there was some copy about the Iran/Contra congressional hearings, which at least peripherally involved alleged government-sponsored drug trafficking. More to the point, it plainly demonstrated to Patrick that secret government policy was certainly a reality. Laws against such activity didn't seem to deter it.

Patrick spent more time reading the paper than he realized. Justine actually found him instead of the other way around. Sure enough, she was brandishing a paper coffee cup. It must have come from a Greek restaurant, given the illustration of yellow columns on a blue field that went around the cup.

"You didn't say how you wanted it," Justine told Patrick in a rapid voice. "So it's black. I figured you could add anything you want to it from what's in the kitchen area."

"Thanks," Patrick said, prying off the plastic lid. "I like it black, anyway."

Justine smiled and sat down on the arm of the sofa, much as she'd sat over him on the smoking room table the day they'd met. Sipping the coffee, Patrick had another chance to study the anklet above her running shoe; Justine was wearing cute white socks: short, with little pom-poms at the Achilles' tendons.

He didn't doubt that Todd Her Boyfriend had given Justine that bit of cheap jewelry. At least Patrick hoped it was cheap.

"Sorry if that's a little cold," Justine said. "I just had to have a cigarette before I came back up here. I guess you understand why."

"Coffee's still hot," Patrick reported.

"Good. Enjoy your group?"

"It was okay. How 'bout your walk?"

"Oh, Patrick!" Justine gushed. "You'll love it when they give you high-level privileges! It's so nice to get out, breath fresh air, see normal people."

"I bet it is."

"And," Justine said, lowering her voice in such a way that Patrick was compelled to listen closely, "when you _do_ get those privs, we can go to walks... together."

"Great," he croaked.

But we're only friends, right? Patrick thought. Still... Still and all...

"Sometimes it's hard to talk in here," Justine said, looking around the day room. "If it's not staff, it's that geek Charley."

Patrick laughed nervously and took another sip. This wasn't gourmet stuff but it was strong and reassuring in its way. Suddenly, he though about how he'd given Simon the brush-off that morning. Maybe if he didn't use the privileges they'd given him so far, he couldn't expect to have more. That would suck. It seemed like he and Justine had spoken as much and as frankly as possible under the immediate circumstances.

"I think I should see what it looks like downstairs," Patrick said softly.

"Oh, sure," Justine agreed, smiling as if she'd read his mind. "I'm supposed to see my quack doctor at eleven, anyway. That means I have to smoke again first."

"Ever try to quit?" Patrick asked.

"Hey," she replied, still smiling, "they stop giving me pills, I'll try to quit smoking. 'Til then, forget it!"

Justine slid off the sofa armrest and gave Patrick a wink. He nodded at her and then watched his friend stride off into the hallway.

Patrick felt tricked. After he'd allowed Simon to give him a guided tour of the more public areas of the first floor, the counselor had waited until they were back up on the ward to talk about the room change.

Not that Patrick minded relocating from the hot spot directly across from the staff office. He wasn't comfortable with the idea of having Fred for a roommate. The older man was disheveled and smelled bad. He also had a nearly-perpetual doglike smirk on his face that made it seem as if he was keeping a sly secret from everyone else.

But Patrick didn't protest because he was sure it wouldn't do him any good. Simon had already mentioned that there were no other beds available for male patients. He didn't explain why the new admission needed a room to himself so Patrick assumed it was standard operating procedure when someone first came onto the ward.

At least he wouldn't be the newest arrival anymore.

The move was done just before lunch and it was easily accomplished, given the lack of many personal effects. It made Patrick think of his brother. Scott and his girlfriend Arlene were off having a good time in Florida at that very moment. Patrick supposed they were walking along some white-sand beach, hand in hand, the very picture of a happy couple. Happy and blissfully ignorant of what poor loser brother Patrick was going through now.

He dreaded the inevitable phone call. Sunday night hopefully, just to get it over with. There were two dimes Patrick had set aside for just that purpose. That was one dime for Sunday night and the other for Monday morning.

His imagination provided the scene. Scott would most likely have said goodnight to Arlene before carrying his luggage up to the apartment. He'd find the door locked but that wouldn't mean anything. Once inside, he'd call out to Patrick, saying _I'm home._ But there'd be no reply. That's odd. _Patrick?_ Scott would check the bedroom his brother used, then his own bedroom just in case. It was a small apartment and it would take just a minute or two for Scott to confirm that Patrick was missing.

"Maybe he got lucky," Scott would say to himself hopefully, as hard to believe as that would be.

Simon took part of his lunch break outside. He had thirty minutes of paid time to eat and otherwise decompress from the ward. The eating part hadn't taken long: a tuna sandwich, some tortilla chips, and a cola from the snack bar. Per order of the director of nursing, patients were banned from that room during the 11:30 to 2:30 period to make sure hospital employees had space for eating their lunches.

Smoking was not permitted in the snack bar at any time. That didn't matter to Simon, who only breathed nicotine smoke on a second-hand basis. A certain illegal substance was another matter but that was very strictly for his off-duty, personal time and never so soon before work that he'd show up with even a slight buzz going.

But Erin the OT assistant did smoke cigarettes. After both she and Simon were done eating, he followed her outside where she could light up.

They crossed the one-way street and headed through the parking lot. Walking uphill, they reached a spot under an elm tree where they could sit. From here, the entire hospital was visible. It was a drab and utilitarian building, rectangular like a giant cracker box. The hospital had been built into the slope of the hill so that the north side of the third floor was at street level while the first and second were actually underground.

In addition to the snack bar, the first floor contained the lobby and admissions office, the morgue, medical records, administration offices, emergency room, radiology, and the pharmacy. The second floor housed the detox ward, billing, and exam rooms used by the internists. And then there was another wing to the third floor, perpendicular to the south end of the voluntary psychiatric ward.

This was the normally vacant medical ward. The hospital was owned by a partnership which also operated a nursing home and on rare occasion some of the residents of the sister facility were admitted to medical for short-term care. In effect, it was a geriatric ward; otherwise its very existence had more to do with keeping a majority of beds at Hillside classified as medical. The detox ward was already considered a medical facility, at least for billing purposes, and even if the geriatric ward was usually empty it still meant that Hillside was a general hospital and could thus bill Medicare and Medicaid for services.

The fourth floor was divided between the secure psychiatric ward on the north end and more offices for doctors, social workers, and the occupational therapists on the south end. There was also a spare, undesignated office that was used by a contracted clinical psychologist to administer his tests on patients as needed.

If Simon and Erin could look at the hospital from their spot under the elm, they could also be seen from any of the east-facing windows. Among them was the window in the staff office.

"Simon likes Erin," Stacey sang, using a schoolyard melody. "Simon likes Errr- _innn_!"

"Get away from that window," Rachel scolded. "You're such a brat!"

But Stacey was right: Simon _did_ like Erin Rourke. She had been working at Hillside Hospital for a little more than three months now and had been friendly with Simon from the beginning. But only to a point; Erin was happily engaged to a fun and exciting man who'd given her a nice little diamond ring, half-karat.

Simon always noticed it because he liked to look at Erin's hands, just then extracting a cigarette from her pack. Her hands were slender, delicate, and smaller than usual for a woman of average height like Erin. Her weight seemed average as well and Simon thought she carried it very well.

"You can't do anything unless you're able to catch them touching each other," Simon was telling her. "No P. C. – physical contact. That's one rule."

"Not even a friendly hand on the shoulder?" Erin asked, preparing to ignite a butane lighter.

"Right. But I tend to let that stuff slide."

"Good. The thing that gets me about that No P. C. rule is that these patients have been in isolation, some of them, afraid of other people. Afraid to reach out. Sometimes they need to do it literally. Then the rules say no, they can't."

"Yeah," Simon murmured, thinking of how badly he wanted to touch Erin.

But it was another one of Simon's hopeless workplace crushes. Other than a recent fling with a temp agency nurse – a forty-ish, lonely, and neglected married woman – his love life was in a persistent drought. Those days as a college Casanova seemed as far away as the planet Mars.

"Did Patrick enjoy the OT group?" Simon asked, eager to change the subject.

"He seemed to," Erin replied, exhaling smoke. "Showed some talent with a seascape he drew."

"I'd like to see it."

"That can be arranged."

Some of Erin's exhaust was carried by the breeze into Simon's face. Noticing it, Erin waved her right hand to try to disperse the smoke.

"Sorry," she said.

"It's all right. Funny how few of us on the voluntary staff smoke."

"Just the opposite on the secure ward."

"Took the words right out of my mouth."

"Seriously, Simon. It gets to me and _I_ go through half a pack a day."

"I hate it up there."

"Come on," Erin replied with a grin.

"Don't get me wrong. I like some individual staff members from the fourth floor. But they have a closed society; they aren't like us."

Simon was delighted by Erin's soft laughter.

"Are you working this weekend?"

"No," Simon answered. "Thank God! It's my turn next time."

"Still, I don't envy you losing half your weekends."

"But it's nice to have one weekday off to compensate. As for you, at least you get to do fun things with the patients all the time. What I do is normally mundane and sometimes dangerous."

"Hey, don't tell _me_ about dangerous," Erin said with a playful scowl. "I used to work in a state facility, remember?"

Simon nodded.

"I used to go right into a locked ward with some pretty scary people."

"But they didn't bother you?"

"I was always pretty calm."

"No, I meant did they bother you as in gave you any hassles? That kind of bothering."

Erin shook her head.

"Like you said, maybe it's because I was bringing them something fun to do."

"Didn't you have an attendant escort you?"

"Not really. They were in the ward with me, of course, but not always close by, like a bodyguard."

Simon thought of something from his early days as a counselor, then mulled it over a little before deciding to raise the subject.

"Years ago, when I was starting out on the night shift, I used to work with this one nurse more than any other. Her name was Rhea. She didn't tell me right away but I made a good first impression on her."

"How?"

"When she saw me, Rhea was glad to see that they'd hired some big guy to work nights with her. It made her feel safer."

"On the voluntary ward?"

"Well, Rhea was very experienced but she'd been assaulted more than once on the job so that made her very safety-conscious."

"Wow, I bet."

"It was flattering when Rhea started calling me her night shift hunk."

"I'll bet," Erin replied, looking Simon over. "I guess that's one way to describe you. You know what? I feel safer with you around as our day shift hunk."

Afraid he'd blush, Simon looked away as though he was interested in the car moving up the street at that instant. On the other hand, he didn't want to endure an awkward silence.

"I've got a membership at the 'Y'," Simon said, looking back to Erin. "Haven't gone in months."

"Shame on you."

"I know. And I have a reputation to live up to... I guess. I think I'm starting to get soft."

When Erin made no comment, Simon flexed his right arm and felt his biceps with his left hand. He realized that it seemed as solid as ever.

"I'm sure you're still twice as strong as I could ever be," Erin said.

But she didn't take the bait. Simon relaxed his arm, barely more disappointed than relieved that Erin hadn't chosen to sample his muscle tone. He looked at his watch.

"Lunch break over?" Erin asked.

"It will be by the time I get back in. Are you going to stay and finish that cigarette?"

"Yeah."

"See you later, then," Simon said, standing up carefully.

He walked briskly down towards the parking lot, the heaviness of his body adding to the momentum.

Patrick hadn't seen Fred since the ward assembly that morning. His grubby roommate had been given privileges to leave the floor by himself so Patrick hadn't given Fred's absence much thought. But by nine o'clock that night, Fred had disappeared.

"Looks like he eloped," a counselor named Art told him after the late medications had been dispensed.

"Eloped?"

"Yeah."

Art was a short, dark middle-aged man with a thick mustache.

"Pardon the hospital jargon," he said. "I mean it looks like old Fred signed out for a walk and decided to keep on walking away from here."

Patrick tried not to look too happy about the news.

"So, what happens when a patient takes off like that? You call the police?"

Art smiled crookedly.

"This isn't a jail, Patrick. No one in here is dangerous enough that we'd have to notify the authorities if they do elope."

Patrick nodded. So maybe that was the secret Fred was keeping behind his canine smile. It really so easy to escape. So easy that the staff didn't even bother to call it an escape.

He thanked Art for sharing the news and went to find Justine. It would be nice to give her more good news.

CHAPTER 6:

OUTSIDE CONTACTS

The first half of Patrick's weekend was a dull blur. Both Charley and Justine left him behind on the ward most of Saturday, using their higher-level privileges. Patrick did get to go on a couple of staff-escorted walks, first to a nearby sandwich shop and later to a threadbare city park.

Maybe it was the pills kicking in, as Patrick allowed himself to suppose, but he hadn't been afraid of being picked up by the DEA while he was outside the walls of the hospital. Yet he felt embarrassed by the low-level functioning of some of the other patients who also went on the walks. Any citizen who spotted their little cluster on the sidewalk could know something was wrong with them. Patrick edged away from the group by a few paces now and then.

Art escorted them for these walks. This counselor was brusque without quite being rude and seemed as eager as any patient to get outside for a while. But he did complain about the hospital van being broken down since he was usually the one to drive patients on field trips.

As for Fred, he was certainly gone by now. The weekend nurse had bagged up Fred's abandoned clothes after breakfast. Things got a but more interesting on Sunday.

Justine had been granted a twelve-hour pass by Dr. Adams. It was supposed to be used at least in part to prepare for discharge. She said she hated having to go from being bossed around by the staff to being bossed around by her parents. But Patrick was annoyed to hear that she would be spending most of the day with Todd Her Boyfriend.

Otherwise, Patrick was still dreading the time he'd have to call Scott. He was informally considering seven that evening as the hour to call his brother.

Between those two preoccupations, Patrick hadn't felt like going out on any more walks. Bored by his bedroom, he had aimlessly watched TV out in the day room all Sunday afternoon. In the process, he got acquainted with the new patient, Anthony Gingarella.

Anthony was yet another person of Patrick's generation. He didn't smoke so he kept Patrick company in the day room. He was small, with spindly limbs and a large, blond-haired head almost like Charley's. Anthony – he refused to be called Tony – was sitting in a wheelchair the whole time although he told Patrick he could walk.

Anthony's voice was soft and high-pitched. He smiled easily but it struck Patrick that Anthony saw a somewhat different reality than he did. It was Frank the counselor's weekend to work and he was frequently stopping by to check in with Anthony.

Patrick realized that Anthony's visibility was an improvement from Saturday. Since his Friday afternoon arrival, Anthony had kept himself hidden in his room more resolutely than Patrick had in his first couple of days. Patrick wondered if that was a typical pattern and thought he might try and compare his and Anthony's behavior to the next new admission.

Because it was summertime, the sun was still shining at seven o'clock. Patrick got up from the day room sofa and reached into his pants pocket to reconfirm that his dimes were still there.

"Gotta call my brother," he told Anthony on his way past the long table.

"Tell him I said hello," Anthony responded. "Ha-ha!"

Patrick was not in the mood for joking, however weak that joke might be. His hands trembled as he picked up the receiver and slipped the coin into the slot.

After two whirring sounds came through the earpiece, Scott picked up.

"Hello?"

"Scott, hi."

"Patrick! Where are you?"

"Uhhh-mmm..."

"Is something wrong? C'mon, tell me!"

"Well..."

"Are you in some kind of trouble? Let me help if you are."

"I'm not in trouble, not exactly. Listen. I'm in a hospital."

"Oh, my God! W-what happened? Are you hurt?"

"No injuries. Nothing, um, physical."

"What d'you mean, 'nothing physical'?"

Patrick swallowed and closed his eyes. His guts felt all numb and his knees quivered.

"Scott, I'm on a psy-psychiatric ward."

"Jesus! What happened?"

"I'm not sure," Patrick said, aware that his voice was soft and mechanical. "They tell me I was all disoriented Wednesday night. Cops took me into... custody. One thing led to another and they put me in here."

"Did you drop acid, or something?"

"No, I asked about that, whether something was slipped to me. They said my blood test was negative for any drugs."

"Okay, Patrick. I'll come right down and get you out of there."

"No," Patrick replied sharply. "I belong here."

"Don't say that!"

"Listen to me. I'm safe in here. I can explain it to you better in person. I signed myself in; I'm not under commitment. This is the _voluntary_ ward."

"Where is it? Which Hospital?"

"Hillside, it's called. It's in Somerville."

"Do you know the address?"

"No."

"Okay, well, I'll check for it in the yellow pages, or something. Are you sure you're all right in there?"

"Yeah, better here than on the outside."

"What d'you mean?"

"I told you, I have to explain in person – in _here_ , all right?"

"All right."

"They're giving me medication," Patrick added. "They have to monitor me while I adjust to it."

"For how long?"

"Can't be sure. My doctor said the average stay is two weeks, which would be a week from Wednesday in my case."

"Okay, well, I want to come over right now. Do they have visiting hours today?"

"Until nine. That should be enough time, right?"

"Yeah, yeah. I'd like to have a word with that doctor of yours. What's his name?"

"Kearney. But he isn't here now."

"Didn't think he was. There's always tomorrow, right? I could call him."

"I guess. Maybe you can ask one of the staff about it tonight."

"I will. Now, what can I bring you?"

"Clothes. I only have the stuff I was wearing when they found me last Wednesday."

"You bet. Anything else? Soap, shampoo?"

"They give us that stuff here, man."

"I'm sorry. Of course they would."

"It's okay. Oh, there was this book I've been reading. I think it's over by my bed. I'd like you to bring that and maybe a couple more. It's boring in here so I'd like to have something to read."

"No problem. I'm on my way. Oh, how can I reach you in there?"

"On the phone I'm using. They have a couple of payphones for us. You might as well write the numbers down now."

"Yeah. I'm ready."

"This one I'm calling from is 936-7277. The other one's... Let's see. Oh! Almost the same number, except it ends in an eight."

"Okay, great! I'll get over there as fast as I can."

"Don't run any red lights."

Patrick went and told the evening charge nurse that his brother was coming in for a visit. She smiled and nodded her beehive hairdo. Charley came up on the ward from using his privileges. Patrick was grateful for his company. Anthony was pleasant enough but lacked the energy to accelerate Patrick's perception of time the way Charley could. It was worth tolerating the smoking room atmosphere to sit with his manic friend.

If Patrick _felt_ nervous, Charley seemed to be acting out the same kind of emotional state. He couldn't sit still for more than a few minutes at a time. He would smoke half a cigarette, then snuff it out or leave it burning in an ashtray, and then lope off down to his bedroom or the day room. At one point, Charley came back with a cup of juice, only to have a counselor take it away from him.

As dusk approached, the doorbell at the main entrance to the ward started to ring more frequently. Patients with passes or high privileges were beginning to return for the day. Patrick was jolted by each ring, anxious for Scott to arrive.

It turned out a bit differently than Patrick had expected. The charge nurse found him in the smoking room and she was all smiles again.

"They just called from the reception desk. Your brother is coming up right now."

Patrick checked his watch. It had taken Scott just under half an hour to reach the hospital. Despite Charley's behavior, it had actually seemed longer than that.

Patrick was able to meet his brother at the sign-in desk. There was a strong family resemblance between the two. Scott was about an inch taller than Patrick and a few pounds heavier. Otherwise, their faces were about as similar as those of fraternal twins.

Scott had brought a small suitcase up with him. The charge nurse politely explained that it was necessary for the staff to check the contents for dangerous or prohibited items. Scott looked faintly annoyed but he readily handed the suitcase over to Kris, who was on her weekend rotation.

"Let's talk in my room," Patrick said. "I don't have a roommate."

"Fine," Scott agreed.

"I'll bring this in to you in just a few minutes," Kris said, holding up the suitcase.

"Thanks," Scott mumbled.

So as they sat together on his bed, Patrick finally confessed to his brother what had been aggravating his fears since his late teens. Scott listened for a few minutes without interrupting. His face was grave, however. What could he say in response to such paranoia?

Kris knocked on the open door before Patrick was done. They both looked at her with minimal interest.

"All checks out," the counselor told them, gently placing the suitcase on the vacant bed.

This time, Patrick was sleeping under the window.

"But now," he continued after Kris left them, "I'm not so sure about the DEA anymore. What Dr. Kearney said makes sense. Why bother with a nobody like me? Could be that my pills are making me think straight."

"I'm sure they are," Scott was quick to say.

"Still," Patrick retorted, "maybe the DEA does things that seem ridiculous when their victims try to tell people about it. Maybe the pills they're giving me are actually designed to make me delusional. Deluded into thinking that I'm not being persecuted!"

"You don't really believe that, do you?"

"Not exactly. My problem is that I can't rule it out and I don't want to take any chances."

"Like telling me any of this over the phone."

"Right."

Still looking grim, Scott nodded.

"For what it's worth," he said, "I think you must be getting better. The better you get, the more you'll realize it."

"I hope you're right."

"I... I guess you'll be okay in here. Suppose you could use some cash?"

"Yeah, especially for when they give me more privileges. I'll want to do some shopping. I mean for little things in convenience stores, like that."

"That's what I thought," Scott said with a weak smile.

He pulled out his wallet and gave Patrick two twenty-dollar bills. Patrick smiled gratefully and slipped the currency into his pants pocket. He knew he was supposed to surrender that much cash for safekeeping in the ward's strongbox. Yet he relished this minor act of rebellion.

"But enough about me," Patrick said. "How was Florida?"

Hours passed before Justine finally made it back to the hospital. When it had gotten past ten o'clock, Patrick worried that Justine had chosen to elope like Fred. He would have hated to miss a chance to say goodbye – to kiss her goodbye.

But no, she was simply running late. Patrick had been lying on his bed, deciding whether to try sleeping when the doorbell rang. He rapidly got up out of bed and went to his door to listen. The charge nurse let Justine in, scolding her a little for being so late. It was fifteen minutes to lights out.

Patrick was happily surprised when Justine came right to his doorway.

"Hi," she said. "I thought you'd still be up. Listen. I've got to take my bedtime pills, then I can meet you in the smoking room, okay?"

"Okay," Patrick replied, trying to be cool about it.

"I've got something important to tell you."

For once, the smoking room was deserted when Patrick got there. Apparently, the nine o'clock medications had sedated most of the patients who'd taken them. Otherwise, the outside activities probably had tired out some of the others. If it hadn't been for his anxiety over Justine's tardiness, Patrick might have also been asleep by then.

He didn't have to wait in the smoking room for long. Before Patrick could mention Scott's visit, Justine was already telling him the most important thing about her pass, even as she pulled a cigarette from the pack she was carrying.

"Well, it's over."

"Over?"

"With Todd."

"I see."

"He's _so_ immature!"

Patrick swallowed and hoped Justine would keep her voice down. He looked at Justine's slender, shapely legs, bare under the black shorts she was wearing. The anklet was gone. He looked back up to her face. Justine was smiling with smug satisfaction.

"I like you better," she said, putting her hand on his knee.

"I'm glad," Patrick muttered hoarsely.

"You aren't into any macho bullshit."

"Of course not!"

"And you listen to me, Patrick."

He nodded.

"You have no idea how much I need that," Justine whispered, gripping his knee tightly. "I really do! Todd wasn't giving me any of that."

"Took you for granted," Patrick said thickly.

"I knew you'd understand!" Justine beamed and then her smile wavered as she looked at him. "Could I kiss you?"

Charmed by Justine's sudden, unexpected demure request, Patrick smiled.

"Kiss me like a friend?"

"I'll kiss you the way I kissed Todd's brother."

Patrick touched her shoulder and leaned in so that Justine could show him how. She kissed him hungrily, opening her mouth as their lips touched. Patrick responded in kind but she pulled back after only a few seconds of deep, tongue-sliding contact.

"We'll have to be careful," Justine said quietly as she stroked his thigh. "You know why."

"Sure, sure," Patrick agreed. "But we can still talk, right? I mean, I really do want to be here for you."

"Patrick, if I'd met you on the outside a year ago, I would never have been put in these hospitals!"

Justine giggled and gave his leg a final rub for the night.

"You'll be my special friend from now on! I'm so lucky to have you here."

"Thanks."

He leaned forward once more and kissed her again, however briefly. Justine put her hand on his chest and pushed him back.

"Down, tiger! Any second one of the counselors is going to come in here, trying to catch us."

Justine stood up, then glanced down at Patrick's crotch. Patrick looked with her. Sure enough, the erection bulge in his pants was obvious.

"Well!" Justine exclaimed. "Think about me when you pull that big ol' worm tonight."

"Wouldn't be the first time," Patrick confessed just before breaking into a nervous giggle.

CHAPTER 7:

A MODEST REQUEST

There were two more discharges scheduled for Monday, as announced in the ward assembly. The two patients were not people Patrick had either been friendly or unfriendly with so he took the news with indifference. He was sitting a couple of seats away from Justine for the sake of discretion. Charley was right next to him as usual. Anthony was on the other side of the room from them, sitting in his wheelchair alongside Frank.

Since this was Anthony's first ward assembly since being admitted, he was subjected to the same ritual Patrick had been through four days earlier. Patrick was both surprised and impressed to hear Anthony say out loud what he himself had not dared to say in front of everyone. When asked what had brought him to Hillside, Anthony said: "A gross injustice, a big misunderstanding." But Frank had talked Anthony down out of his waxing agitation and swiftly changed the direction of the introduction.

And that was that until the "clear the air" segment of the assembly. Simon opened the floor to any ward issues that anyone cared to discuss.

"We've got mice up here," Linda declared.

Charley laughed.

"It's true!" Linda exclaimed. "I saw one of them last night. I want to know what's going to be done about it!"

"Housekeeping has been notified," Rachel reported. "They're looking into getting an exterminator up here."

"Looking into it?" Justine sneered. "Is that all?"

"No," Rachel said coolly. "In the meantime, we need to be careful to clean up after ourselves. I know _I've_ seen food crumbs on the floor and on the counters. That's what brings mice up here."

"So clean up after yourselves and the mice won't have anything to feed on," Frank added pedantically.

"Mice have a right to eat, too!" Anthony shouted.

His observation was met by a chorus of groans and more laughter from Charley. Frank leaned over and whispered something to Anthony, who broke out in a soft giggle.

Patrick leaned forward and looked to his left, trying to gauge Justine's reaction. She was staring across the floor in Anthony's direction. The look on her face was one of utter contempt.

But her mercurial moods allowed her to smile at him after the meeting had broken up. Patrick ached to touch Justine again, unthinkable though it was. They had to settle for sustained, intense eye contact.

Charley prodded Patrick in the ribs as they started out to the hallway for the tables. Assuming that he was about to be teased about Justine, Patrick held his breath.

"Some fuckin' nut, isn't he?" Charley said, pointing over at Anthony, who was rolling forward in his wheelchair.

"He's no so different from any of us," Patrick replied firmly. "You heard what he said about... about injustice, wasn't it?"

"So?"

"That's what I thought when they sent me here," Patrick explained as they reached the first table. "You too, man."

"Me too?" Charley asked with a puzzled grin.

"Somebody get me a cheap lawyer, remember?"

All Patrick accomplished with that was to make Charley laugh once again, louder than ever. He was sure that his buddy had missed the point entirely. Oh, well. It had been worth a try.

Frank Devenau was the most experienced mental health counselor on either psychiatric ward at Hillside. He had twelve years of hospital work behind him, some of it in drug and alcohol rehab, most of it in psychiatric facilities like this one. He had been employed at Hillside in particular for three and a half years by that summer.

Frank liked to remind people about his experience and occasionally bragged about his knowledge. What Frank did know was mostly self-taught. He was inquisitive and intelligent; Eastern mysticism fascinated him and he had chosen to limit his material possessions. Frank lived in a clean boarding house within walking distance of the hospital.

One thing that his one-the-job training had taught Frank was the importance of structure. Apart from organic brain dysfunction, the patients had difficulty coping with the outside world because they lacked structure. Prior to admission, most of them were too distracted by their symptoms to maintain the mundane, routine, repetitive behavior that keeps human beings connected with reality.

Frank's faith was that as the medication and therapies brought patients out of psychosis, the imposition of structure would allow them to readapt to the world. There was no sense in patching together someone's broken psyche and then toss him out to the sidewalk without preparation for everyday living.

Some patients needed little help in making the adjustment. Linda would be one example. All they had to do was cooperate with group and meeting schedules, obey the rules governing the use of privileges. Even if they struggled against the rules, at least the higher functioning patients acknowledged their existence. That was a good thing.

Other patients needed far more staff direction. There was work to be done to get their lives structured. Frank regretted that many of his colleagues, past and present, didn't comprehend the significance of structure. But Frank would always work hard with patients like Anthony Gingarella.

Of course Stacey had been only too happy to pass on certain responsibilities to her eager counterpart. Anthony had lost bladder control due to his injuries and Stacey hadn't been enthusiastic about handling the catheter and reservoir bag strapped to Anthony's leg.

But Frank had asked her to instruct him on how to change the catheter in case Anthony couldn't do it himself. With more patience than usual when it came to talking with Frank, Stacey demonstrated with a spare, empty catheter set from the supply room.

She had failed to offend him by referring to the reservoir as a "piss bag". Despite his earnestness, Frank had usually been a good sport when it came to the dark, dry wit of veteran staff members. After all, he was capable of it, himself.

Patrick had another session with Dr. Kearney that morning. This time, he was much more relaxed. Patrick was less defensive when the doctor questioned the basis of his fears, having allowed himself to doubt them on his own. He appreciated Dr. Kearney's good humor and general attitude of encouragement. Patrick was especially relieved that his psychiatrist never mentioned Justine.

Maybe their budding romance had actually gone unnoticed by the staff. Could the precautions have been working? Patrick felt lucky.

After the session, Patrick was able to join a group of low-privilege patients on a staff-escorted trip to the snack bar. Brenda was taking charge of them. Patrick was able to tolerate this undignified excursion because he knew that Dr. Kearney was about to write an order to upgrade his privileges. The medication order was not to be changed given Patrick's improvement and lack of side effects.

He was in for a surprise when he returned to his room. A stranger was sitting on the other bed. Patrick stood still in the doorway, looking him over. The stranger seemed unaware of Patrick's presence.

The man was clearly a good ten to fifteen years older than Patrick. He looked enough like Fred that for an instant, Patrick feared that his ex-roommate had made a return appearance. But the new man was balder than Fred and his remaining hair was darker or perhaps just greasier. Instead of a smirk, this patient had a quivering lower lip above a weak chin. He was also sitting slouched forward, elbows planted on his thighs.

Since the new patient didn't look up, let alone say anything to him, Patrick backed out of the room. He wandered back down the hallway, looking for Justine. Pausing by her door, Patrick heard his girlfriend talking with somebody in the room. Her tone was shrill, although Patrick could make out only a few isolated words. Justine seemed to be voicing her usual gripes. Nothing new, so Patrick turned and walked into the smoking room to wait for her.

He chose a seat from which he could monitor the hallway. After hearing a door open, Patrick saw the nurse Stacey striding briskly down the corridor, a frown on her face. Then Justine appeared, smiling when she saw Patrick.

"Hey, there!"

"Hi," Patrick responded. "I... I was afraid maybe you just got restricted to your room again."

"Not this time," Justine said, scowling a bit.

They didn't touch each other when she came to sit down because there were too many witnesses in the room. The other three patients were all part of the more lucid segment of the population. There was a certain social distinction on the ward and, in this context, Justine was the biggest snob of them all.

"What was that about?" Patrick asked.

"Oh! They want to try a new pill out on me."

"Really? Dr. Kearney just told me they're keeping me on the same stuff."

"Yeah, well, what did I tell you before? Dr. Adams loves to experiment with the chemicals."

"Too bad."

"I'd like to trade doctors with you."

"No thanks," Patrick said, wishing he could hold Justine's hand to comfort her.

A moment later, Kris led Patrick's new roommate into the smoking room.

"This is Wyatt," she told the gathered patients. "He just arrived. Make him feel welcome."

The silence that followed her words was variously embarrassed, contemptuous, fearful, and apathetic. Kris lit Wyatt's cigarette and left the room. Wyatt was standing with a stooped posture. He shuffled over to one corner. Whether consciously or not, Wyatt sat as far from the rest of them as possible. Patrick was nearest to him.

Linda sighed and got up from the short sofa. Justine had been sitting next to her. Now she smiled and patted the vacant cushion. Patrick hurried to join her as Linda entered the hallway.

Patrick looked back at Wyatt, who was duplicating the posture he'd taken on his bed, gazing sleepily at the floor in front of him. The cigarette kept burning in his fingers; Patrick hadn't seen Wyatt take a puff so far.

Then Wyatt started mumbling to himself, speaking too softly to be heard from Patrick's vantage point. Just seeing Wyatt's lips move was disturbing enough.

"My new roommate," Patrick whispered.

"You want to listen to his mumbling all night?"

"Shit!"

"Go tell 'em you want a room change," Justine said, nudging his elbow.

"Can I do that?"

"Of course! Don't wimp out. Tell 'em right now!"

Patrick got up and left the room slowly. Although feeling slightly guilty about going along with the patient caste system, he couldn't get over how intimidating Wyatt's behavior was. He thought it would be best to approach making the request with humility; if he acted like Justine, they'd probably deny him a room change out of spite.

The door to the staff office was closed so Patrick had to knock. Rachel opened it wide enough for him to see her face and nothing much else.

"Yes, Patrick?"

"I... I... have a request."

"A request?" Rachel echoed, smiling. "What might that be?"

"Um, I think I'd like to change rooms."

"I see."

Patrick heard someone walking up behind him. It didn't sound like Wyatt's shuffling, at least. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Simon.

"Hey, what's up?" Simon asked.

"Seems Patrick here wants a new bed assignment," Rachel answered, swinging the door open all the way.

"Is that so?" Simon asked, passing Patrick on his way into the office. "Better check and see what we have available."

He and Rachel went over to stand near the table. Kris was already sitting there, a patient's chart open in front of her.

Simon reached over and got the floor plan down from the bulletin board. He and Rachel leaned over it at the end of the table. Patrick wasn't sure what they were doing but noticed that they both had wide butts.

After some brief murmuring that Patrick couldn't make out, they turned around to face him.

"If you're sure you want to move," Simon began, "we can do that for you. But be warned: the only open bed is in Charley's room."

"Oh, I don't mind," Patrick said quickly. "I like Charley. Th-that new guy, that Wyatt..."

"Say no more," Simon told him. "Need help moving your stuff?"

"No, it's cool," Patrick replied, almost giddy with relief. "Can I move right now?"

"Of course," Simon told him as he started to close the door. "See you later."

He pushed the catching lock into place and turned back around.

"Well, that was easy," Simon remarked.

They had planned to move Patrick down the hall into Charley's room shortly after receiving the full report on Wyatt Halliday. Kris was still fuming over the revelations from Wyatt's halfway house. After all, he'd been assigned to her.

"Twenty-two separate incidents!" Kris snapped, swatting the stack of forms in front of her. "This is so God damned _wrong_! They lied to us!"

Simon sat down next to her and glanced at the forms she was talking about. Kris slid them over to him.

"Incident reports," she said. "Twenty-two documented assaults. We aren't supposed to have assaultive patients here!"

"I know," Simon muttered, flipping through the forms himself.

"What are we going to do about it?"

"Nothing much we _can_ do," Rachel said calmly. "You know this happens sometimes. They lie to us over the phone; Stella isn't a mind-reader."

"I don't blame Stella," Kris reacted. "I blame the halfway house."

"Half-assed house," Simon quipped.

"I wish we could just ship him right back." Kris went on. "Return to sender, delivery refused. But since that's not going to happen, why don't we put Wyatt upstairs where he belongs?"

"I already checked into that," Rachel told her. "No available beds. Now, you said Wyatt doesn't appear agitated right now?"

"No," Kris admitted. "But isn't that just from the Thorazine?"

"Whatever it is," Rachel said, "as long as he's calm, we have to deal with him. And hopefully he'll stay that way on his meds. He can't be transferred to a state hospital unless there's an incident."

"What if he hits another patient?" Kris argued. "Do well tell the person he hits, 'Sorry about that but since you were part of Wyatt's "incident" we can get rid of him; thanks for your assistance'?"

Simon laughed softly, shaking his head.

"We'll keep a close watch on Wyatt," Rachel insisted. "Have his meds in liquid form so he can't cheek them, which could be why he acted out in the halfway house. Gloria's meeting with Dr. Kearney about all that right now."

Kris started to say something else but she stopped herself. The young counselor was never afraid to be opinionated but she was also bright enough to recognize when a decision had been made and her influence was negligible.

Simon, who felt the same way about the situation, caught Kris's eye and joined her in a wince. At least Patrick was going to be safer. If Wyatt did strike another patient, Simon hoped it wouldn't be someone he liked.

CHAPTER 8:

PROGRESS REPORTS

Charley was happy to see Patrick at his door, suitcase in hand.

"Hey-hey! You moving in?"

"That's right," Patrick said, crossing the threshold.

" _Great_!" Charley responded, taking a pack of cigarettes from the top drawer of his dresser.

Patrick dropped his suitcase on the free bed, the one closer to the door.

"Gimme five!" Charley exclaimed, holding out his right hand, palm up.

Feeling silly, Patrick went along and slapped down onto his latest roommate's palm. Charley slapped Patrick's palm right back when it was offered.

The a car drove past the window, startling Patrick.

"What?" Charley asked, noticing the reaction.

"I didn't realize we were on the ground floor here," Patrick explained. "I mean, I forgot."

"Oh, yeah! It's the hill."

"Yeah. My last room had a pretty long drop to the ground."

"Hey, throw a chair through _this_ window and you can escape! Pretty good, huh?"

"I don't think that's necessary," Patrick answered with a smile. "Dr. Kearney gave me more privileges so I can go downstairs all by myself now. But I still need a staff member with me to go outside."

"Let's go right now," Charley suggested.

"Yeah, I can unpack later."

Charley hurried past Patrick to lead their way down the hall. He pointed over at the two pay phones while he was at it.

"See? We're the closest ones to the phones so we can get to 'em first!"

"And be first in line for meds," Patrick said, nodding towards the nurse's station. "The shower's next to us, too."

"Better neighborhood, man!"

"Um, I'd like to see if Justine wants to go with us. She told me to ask for the room change."

"Yeah, let's go get your girlfriend," Charley said loudly as they passed the day room.

"Jesus!" Patrick gasped. "Keep it down!"

He glanced back and forth nervously but didn't see anyone who was plainly within earshot. Charley giggled and tapped Patrick's elbow by way of an apology. Patrick was grateful to see that the staff office door was closed when they reached it.

"I'll sign us out, okay?" Charley offered.

"Okay," Patrick said, distracted by his need to find Justine.

He also felt nervous thanks to Charley's indiscretion. How did Charley know? Or was he only teasing, guessing... or what?

Justine was not in the smoking room and the door to her bedroom was wide open without her in it. Patrick's "girlfriend" – dare he call her that? – was nowhere in sight. It had been a quick disappearance. Patrick had expected Justine to at least wait long enough to find out whether the move request had been successful. But then again, perhaps her doctor had called her in for a session. After all, hadn't she just been fighting that nurse over the new pill prescription?

Patrick caught up with Charley at the sign-in desk. They still needed to find someone with a key to let them out. Hilda the ward clerk was as inexplicably absent as Justine.

"I'll go knock," Charley offered.

He managed to lure Brenda out of the staff office. Before she would open the door for them, the counselor consulted the patient privilege list. It was kept in a three-ring binder in one of the desk drawers.

"Patrick," Brenda said, "you can't leave the floor by yourself."

"He's goin' with me, though," Charley said while Patrick stiffened angrily.

"I meant he can't go without staff."

"That's not right!" Patrick sputtered. "Dr. Kearney said he was writing me new privileges! I'm supposed to be able to go downstairs without staff. I know I still have to stay inside but – "

"Just relax," Brenda told him sharply. "I'll go and check it out with Gloria."

"That's tellin' 'em," Charley remarked, watching Brenda complete her brisk walk back to the staff office.

Guess I picked that up from Justine, Patrick thought.

After two minutes that seemed longer than that, Brenda came back. Her pace was slower this time and she went right over to the entry door.

"Sorry," Brenda muttered. "The privilege list wasn't updated yet. Don't go outside, Patrick."

Patrick nipped his lower lip instead of reminding the counselor that he had already told her as much himself. Without a word, he followed Charley to the elevator.

"Want to press the button?" Charley asked.

"You do it," Patrick answered without enthusiasm.

Inside the elevator, he finally broached the subject.

"What was that, calling Justine my girlfriend?"

"What, isn't she?"

"I... I don't know. What did you hear?"

Charley grinned and shrugged his shoulders.

"Nothin'," he said. "I just called it from the beginning, remember? I pointed her out to you."

The elevator doors opened. Nobody was in the immediate area, which was the emergency department reception desk; like the medical ward, it was seldom put to any use.

"But Justine didn't say anything to you about it?" Patrick asked as they headed up towards the lobby.

"Like she ever talks to _me_ ," Charley replied with a big smirk on his face.

That was a point Patrick couldn't argue with. It was probably only an impression Charley had picked up from watching the two of them together. They'd seemed like an obvious potential couple to Charley and why not? Patrick was eager to tell his friend about how Justine had broken up with Todd and how she'd tongue-kissed him to celebrate. But the wacky shepherd was to much of a motor-mouth to be trusted with that kind of information.

"Hey, I'll keep a lid on it for you," Charley promised when they turned right at the lobby to access the snack bar.

"Keep a lid on what?"

"Exactly!" Charley shouted with delight.

But Patrick wasn't reassured. Who else knew about him and Justine, or thought that they knew?

Patrick called Scott before going to bed that night, just to let his brother know that he was feeling better. Perhaps a discharge date was imminent, although Dr. Kearney hadn't said anything about that so far. Patrick didn't want to tell Scott about Justine. It was not whether Scott could keep it a secret that made Patrick withhold the news, rather he feared his brother wouldn't like the idea of Patrick having a mentally ill girlfriend.

Justine had been glad to hear that Patrick had moved to what Charley called the "better neighborhood." She had squeezed Patrick's forearm and told him that he was learning.

"The only bad thing is that we'll be sleeping farther apart," Justine had observed with a wink.

Since Patrick was able to go downstairs without supervision, he finally took the opportunity to have a "date" with Justine in the snack bar. They signed out an hour after supper. While it turned out that they had to put up with the company of other patients, Patrick and Justine got to ride the elevator all by themselves both ways.

They stood and necked in that bit of seclusion, glad that the machinery was moving the elevator so slowly. Justine let him touch her breasts through her shirt. Somehow, Patrick had expected those little things to be firm but instead they felt as if they were stuffed with downy feathers. At the same time, her nipples perked up like grateful pebbles.

They'd parted at the sign-in desk, Patrick hurrying off to take a shower twelve hours early. In the privacy of an even smaller space, he had yanked at his swollen cock until a shuddering erection relieved him. The warm water spray from the showerhead eliminated the evidence. It had been some night.

"Glad you're feeling better," Scott said as they wrapped up their call.

"Thanks," Patrick replied, watching Wyatt shamble out of the day room. "Well, good night."

"Good night."

After hanging up, Patrick warily observed Wyatt move out of his sight, apparently going back to his room. He thought about how odd it was to find one patient to be afraid of. Not even a week ago, most of the patients had made him a little uneasy. Now they were simply people to him, perhaps not ordinary, but then neither was he. No matter how screwed up they might be, none of them had seemed likely to be violent. Not until Wyatt had shown up.

Charley didn't seem intimidated, however. They had talked about it in their room early that afternoon.

"He socks me, he'll get it right back!" Charley had proclaimed. " _Pow_! We'll see who hits harder!"

Patrick wandered back into the day room. There was about an hour left before lights out and Patrick wanted a cup of milk. He wasn't going to wait up until the last minute; if nothing else, his masturbation had relaxed him more than usual. Besides, he had been going to bed before eleven o'clock for the past few nights, anyway.

Patrick had been a bit concerned about Charley's mania in terms of getting some sleep at night. But Charley was already slumbering heavily and Patrick supposed that the nurses gave him an extra level of sedation for Charley's nine o'clock meds. For that matter, Patrick couldn't remember seeing Charley out and about later than ten o'clock, anyway. Sipping his milk, Patrick figured he could expect Charley to wake up before dawn, farm boy that he was.

He smiled at Linda, who was watching the TV and then noticed Albert stride in to join them. They exchanged helloes. Patrick appreciated these more mature, quieter patients. As much as he liked Charley, his friend had a tendency to drain the energy right out of other people and use it for himself. Of course, Justine drove Patrick wild with desire so it wasn't all that comfortable to get near her.

Patrick threw away the empty Styrofoam cup and turned around. There was Wyatt coming back into the day room. He was far enough away that Patrick wasn't taken aback. But he started to take the long way around to avoid getting near Wyatt and then decided it was taking caution too far, all the way into cowardice.

Should give him a chance, Patrick thought hopefully.

He walked right up to Wyatt and gave him a slight nod.

"Hi, how are you?" Patrick asked.

Wyatt broke into a sickly grin and raised his head high enough to meet Patrick's eyes.

"I wish I was on a better planet than this one," Wyatt said softly.

"A better planet?"

"Yes... This is a gutter planet. Shit planet."

"Seems that way sometimes," Patrick replied as he started to move on. "Well, good night."

This time Wyatt didn't reply. They parted company, Patrick telling himself that it hadn't hurt to be cordial.

The psychiatrists' treatment teams met once a week. The doctors would preside over the review of each patient's progress with the nurse team leader, social worker, occupational therapist, and the team counselors. The Kearney team gathered on Tuesday mornings, usually around ten o'clock. Since Dr. Kearney's office was so small, the team would go upstairs to the office shared by the occupational therapists and social workers.

Both Simon and Kris had a little work to do before the meeting since each had a new patient to present to the group. Although everyone on the team knew who Patrick and Wyatt were, neither had been discussed in a weekly meeting before. Just like residents participating in medical rounds, the counselors had to recite the case histories of the new additions to the caseload. Sitting quietly in the staff office, the two of them scribbled in their notebooks, transcribing data from the patient charts.

Once done with that task, Kris and Simon went upstairs using the south fire door by the lockers and washing machine. The south stairwell took them directly to the third story offices and they avoided the secure ward altogether, something each of them preferred.

Dr. Kearney was the last one to join the meeting as usual. Gloria, Kris, Simon, Erin, and Tom the social worker were gathered in a semi-circle of chairs in what looked like a miniature ward assembly.

"Good morning, all," Dr. Kearney said, smiling as he closed the door behind him.

His grandfatherly demeanor was not limited to interaction with patients. The team members smiled back at the doctor as he took his seat next to Gloria. She was holding the black binder containing the doctor's order forms.

Simon took one last proofread of his open notebook, getting ready to deliver his report. He would have to instantly translate the abbreviations, acronyms, and nursing note symbols while he spoke. For example, APE stood for "acute psychotic episode".

"Well, let's get started," Gloria said after the brief initial pleasantries. "Would you like to go first, Simon?"

"Yeah. We all know this one."

Simon cleared his throat.

"Patrick Coyne. This is the first Hillside admission and also the first psych hospitalization for this twenty-three year old white male, admitted last Wednesday night through the Cambridge City Hospital E. R. Admitting diagnosis was acute psychotic episode. Patrick was taken into protective custody secondary to being seen wandering through Central Square in a disoriented state. He was apparently expressing paranoid delusions and was initially thought to be under the influence of drugs and/or alcohol. When no trace of either was found in his blood, Patrick was evaluated for psychiatric care and subsequently referred to our facility.

"Patrick lives in Waltham with his older brother Scott. Neither parent is involved; Patrick's mother has been dead for three years and his father's whereabouts have been unknown since Patrick's early childhood.

"He is negative for suicidality and has contracted for safety on the ward. Positive for paranoid ideation, although on the one hand he hasn't been very open about it... outside of his sessions with Dr. Kearney. On the other hand, the severity of delusions appear to have been in decline since his medication regimen began.

"No documented psychiatric history prior to his break and no therapy. Apart from his paranoia, Patrick is high-functioning and intelligent. He socializes well and has made... friends among the patient population."

Kris snorted at Simon's dryly clinical phrasing. Simon paused to smile at her.

"We'll get to Patrick's social interactions later," Gloria said.

Dr. Kearney thanked Simon and took over the Patrick Coyne discussion. He detailed the substance of Patrick's delusions, making Simon smirk. The counselor was no stranger to marijuana himself, although he kept away from harder narcotics. On the topic of legally prescribed drugs, Dr. Kearney talked about the pills he'd ordered for Patrick. It was "so far, so good" as far as the medication was concerned.

"Now I understand that Patrick has found himself a girlfriend on the ward," Dr. Kearney said. "Is that right?"

"Seems that way," Simon replied.

"More than 'seems'," Kris interjected. "It's that borderline, Justine Edwards."

"Any inappropriate behavior?" Dr. Kearney asked.

"Nothing we've caught them doing," Kris reported. "But they've been spending a lot of time together. They could be touching – kissing – when nobody's looking."

"He hasn't even been here a week and this is already going on?" Erin spoke up in surprise.

"I think it's mostly been her pursuing him," Simon remarked. "But anyway, you know how it is: they're here for a short time so things happen more rapidly than they would on the outside."

"Can't we do anything to stop this?" Kris asked.

"Like what?" Simon reacted. "I mean, they have privileges that they earned legitimately. If they get together off the ward, well, then it's beyond our control."

"But it's bad for both of them," Kris insisted. "They're here for treatment, not romance. It's a hospital, not a singles' resort."

"Isn't it bad for their progress to get so involved in each other that way?" Tom suggested.

"That's true," Dr. Kearney said, taking the order book from Gloria. "It can't help but be a distraction for both of them. But they're both very young and they probably lack impulse control."

"Well, we can't just restrict them to the ward," Simon muttered impatiently. "It's not possible to protect them from each other. Not entirely."

"Might as well put them in the same room so they can sleep together, is that it?" Kris asked acidly.

"Of course not," Simon snapped. "I understand that we'll need to chaperone them as best we can. There's just no cause to punish them without catching misbehavior first."

"Simon, you may have to talk with Patrick about this," Gloria said.

"Me?"

"You're his primary," Kris reminded him.

"I know that but – "

"You're his age," Gloria interrupted. "You could talk to him like a brother."

"Maybe," Simon responded unhappily.

"I'll talk to Patrick," Dr. Kearney declared. "That is, I'll bring it up with the boy, see what he has to say about Justine. I don't expect him to take advice from staff about this, however."

"Okay," Simon murmured. "If we do catch them doing something, then I'll have a talk with him."

"All right," Gloria said with a nod. "Right now, Patrick has the privileges to go downstairs by himself but he's not supposed to leave the building without a staff member."

"Should we raise his privileges?" Dr. Kearney asked.

"He's just had one increase yesterday," Gloria reminded him. "We don't want to advance him too quickly."

The psychiatrist nodded.

"Make sure he doesn't abuse what he has now," Gloria went on. "Then we'll see about raising his privileges in time for the weekend."

"Very well," Dr. Kearney nodded. "I believe that we should be at a point by this time next week where we can discuss discharge planning for Patrick."

"That's good," Simon commented.

"Let's go on," Gloria said. "Kris?"

"Wyatt Halliday. First admission for this thirty-eight year old white male. Diagnosis was acute exacerbation of schizophrenia. He had been decompensating at his halfway house so they found a place to dump him: right here.

"Wyatt has a long psychiatric history with several admissions to Metropolitan State Hospital and other state facilities since his first psychotic break at age eighteen. His halfway house placement was done six months ago.

"No family involved; parents dead, siblings not interested. Wyatt is not suicidal and it's hard to tell how paranoid he is because of his isolative behavior. But he is beginning to talk more. His decompensation at the halfway house apparently was because he'd stop taking meds. He's been on liquid meds here so maybe it's been building up in his system now.

"But Wyatt still looks pretty scary. The other patients seem to avoid him as much as possible. The halfway house sent a big stack of incident reports, twenty-two of them, documenting assaultive behavior. We think it might only be a matter of time before he goes off in here."

Kris finished her report with a scowl on her face.

"Maybe he won't turn violent," Tom said. "I mean, if he can't hide a pill under his tongue, the meds could be working now, like you said."

"Wyatt _did_ get a lot of Thorazine injected into his butt at the emergency room," Gloria commented. "Enough to make him quiet for the first few days. If what Wyatt's getting right now isn't adequate, we might not know until he demonstrates it by throwing a punch at somebody."

"He's a time bomb, doctor," Kris said, boldly seeking his eye contact.

"We have to give the medication a chance to work," Dr. Kearney replied calmly. "I believe it's already been determined that the secure ward has no vacancies at the moment. Under the circumstances, we have to keep Wyatt right where he is and hope for the best. I know that won't sound good enough, especially to you and Simon. You two are on the front line and I know what that's like; I was an attendant myself after the war. But in those days, we didn't have the medications we have now, not even Thorazine."

Simon nodded. He'd heard the story from the doctor before.

"Unfortunately," Dr. Kearney continued, "you'll just have to deal with the situation as it is. We all have to. I'm not saying we have to wait until someone gets hurt but as long as Wyatt's behavior is just frightening, not disruptive, it's unfair to send him elsewhere."

"His behavior _is_ disruptive, though," Kris insisted in her final appeal. "It's like there's a reverse magnetism when he's walking around the ward. The other patients shy away from him. It's bad."

"Might be a good thing," Tom remarked. "If Wyatt's potentially violent and nobody's close enough for him to hit, he'll take it out on an object instead."

Kris shook her head but kept quiet after that. No one mentioned Wyatt's privilege status. His restriction to the ward would continue.

CHAPTER 9:

A BREAKTHROUGH

By his second Friday at Hillside Hospital, Patrick was kissing Justine on a daily basis. They usually made out on the elevator, a perfect privacy space, especially given that it lacked a security camera. Thursday after lunch, Justine had startled Patrick by pulling out the red emergency stop switch when they were halfway up the shaft.

"Let's _do_ it!" Justine had shouted over the buzzer.

Patrick had been too overwhelmed to say or do anything. But Justine pushed the button back into the panel and the elevator resumed its rise.

"Just kidding."

She kissed him only briefly and then tried to hug away his shakiness. Apparently, no staff on the voluntary ward had heard the buzzer.

On Friday afternoon, Dr. Kearney raised Patrick's privilege level to where he could walk outside all by himself. As much as he lusted after Justine, Patrick was afraid to rock the boat. When he took his first opportunity for a walk, shortly after the lunch service in the day room, Patrick went alone. He had been so worried about the ostensibly secret romance that he'd totally forgotten about the DEA. It came to him as he walked uphill from the hospital.

Patrick stopped in his tracks as he realized how vulnerable he was, out there in the open. He looked around, back and forth. It was a warm summer day in a residential neighborhood. Nobody cared about him. DEA? Kearney was right: they had better things to do than keep Patrick Coyne under surveillance.

"Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit," he muttered softly to himself, degrading his earlier fears.

The mantra worked and Patrick started walking again.

Now he understood everything. The War on Drugs had been meant to make dopers paranoid. Especially marijuana smokers like himself. A common side-effect of the weed was to make people self-conscious, anyway. That harsh rhetoric coming from Washington was merely intended to scare people. Of course! It was exactly what had happened in his case. Enough talk like that and anyone would see narcs hiding behind every tree, bush, and fire hydrant.

"God, I want to get stoned!" Patrick said loudly enough for his voice to be picked up by any hidden microphone within a fifty-foot radius.

Charley's erratic behavior had capped his privileges one notch below Patrick's. When he wanted to go out to a sandwich shop for lunch rather than eat what had come up on his tray, Simon had to escort him off the grounds, asking Charley to wait until the rest of the patients were done with the day room meal.

Despite his day-to-day limits, Dr. Kearney had ordered a twelve-hour pass for Charley because of a tentative discharge date the following week. About the same time that Patrick was having his Epiphany one block north of the hospital, Charley and Simon were sitting at a table in the sandwich shop farther to the southwest of the facility.

Simon watched Charley bite into a thickly-stacked sandwich that had four varieties of meat, two kinds of cheese, a heap of lettuce and onions, a dripping mass of mayonnaise, all between halves of a wheat roll. The counselor had just a small cola for himself; Charley's drink was a 24-ounce cup of Mountain Dew.

Simon smiled as he remembered one of his favorite work stories, which had occurred in this very restaurant. From what Simon had heard, a former colleague had escorted three lower-functioning patients to the sandwich shop one Saturday afternoon. The counselor was a man named Carl, a person Simon recalled with some fondness. Carl was a little older than he was, dressed sloppily, and often neglected to shave before coming to work. Carl was one of those people whose intellect didn't go along with a lot of common sense.

Trudy Maxwell had been in the hospital back then, just as brittle and volatile as she was now. During her visit to this place with Carl, Trudy had become convinced that the counter boy had short-changed her. Being Trudy, she had raised a ruckus over it. The sandwich shop manager had made a frantic call to the hospital, reporting that "you've got four patients in here and one of them is going off!"

Poor Carl, Simon thought. He fit in just too well with the patients, didn't he? I should've been nicer to him while he was around. Or I guess I shouldn't have joined in when everyone else was attacking him behind his back. But then having Carl around made me look better by comparison. Playground logic; I guess that was it.

"Enjoying that sandwich?" Simon asked, changing the subject for himself.

His mouth too full to talk for once, Charley nodded his head eagerly. Then he took a long sip of his drink to help himself swallow.

"Mmnnn... yeah!" Charley reported.

"Looking forward to your weekend pass, aren't you?"

"Sure am!"

"Parents coming to pick you up?"

Charley nodded.

"Have you decided, Saturday or Sunday?"

"Guess it's Sunday. Yeah!"

Simon nodded, just about done with pumping Charley for the sake of the shift's progress notes. Then he thought of something else.

"Got a hometown girlfriend?"

Charley grinned by way of an answer.

"I'm sure she's dying to see you."

"Yeah, but she is ug- _lee_! For real, she is!"

"That's not very nice, Charley."

"But it's true!"

"Well, what do you like about her?"

"She's nice to me. So what if she's ugly?"

"That's better. But you still shouldn't say she's ugly. Keep her individual beauty in mind."

"Is that what you do?"

"Is that what I do about what?"

"About _your_ girlfriend, man!"

I don't have a girlfriend, Simon thought ruefully. But damned if I'm going to tell any patients about that.

"Finish your sandwich."

"Hey, don't be mad. I was just askin'. Like when Patrick..."

Charley laughed and slapped the table.

"Fuck me!"

"Language," Simon cautioned him automatically. "So, what about Patrick?"

"I wasn't supposed to say nothin'," Charley muttered, looking down.

"Never mind, it's okay. I... I won't tell Patrick you said anything."

"He's a cool guy, Patrick. Yeah..."

"Don't worry," Simon insisted. "Just remember to think before you talk a little more often."

"Can't do it."

"Why not?"

"Talking's just thinking with my mouth open. That's what my Mom says I do."

Patrick was up to the busy street at the crest of the hill by then. He had just walked out of a convenience store, having spent some of the money Scott have given him. He was carrying a small paper bag containing a candy bar, a small bag of potato chips, and a pack of cigarettes for Justine. Patrick had also tried his luck with a lottery scratch ticket. He had rubbed the edge of a penny over the designated areas as he stood near the doorway outside the store. No small fortune for him, not even a free ticket.

Then Patrick looked up and thought that his luck could be changing. He saw a bus down the street, paused at a stop a couple of blocks away. The bus would pulling up to the traffic light on the other side of the intersection in a matter of seconds.

The "Don't Walk" signal was flashing. Patrick made an impulsive dash though the crosswalk so that he could intercept the bus... if he really wanted to. The hospital was on this side of the street as well, three or four blocks downhill.

Patrick's heart started to pound as reached into his pocket and felt for the coins he already knew were there. Exact change for a ride out of here. The route number and the word "Lechmere" was displayed above the bus windshield. That was the name of a Green Line streetcar station.

Fifty cents for the bus farebox, another sixty for a streetcar token. A ride from Lechmere to Kenmore Square and...

"Shit, it would be so easy," Patrick whispered as the driver set the right turn signal blinking, meaning he was about to pull over at the stop.

Then again, Patrick thought as he turned away from the bus, Scott might turn me in. Besides, my damned apartment keys are back in the locker!

Patrick marched down the hill. He hoped that Justine would give him a nice, affectionate reward for the cigarettes.

There was a commanding view from the window in Justine's room. She could see the street that lead down towards Cambridge. Harvard Square was more or less within walking distance. She looked at the rooftops of neighborhood houses spread out like scale models in front of her. Leaning her hands on the sill, Justine peered down at the sidewalk. It was a steep, three-story drop to the concrete. A killing fall, almost certainly.

Could the window glass be broken easily? Justine touched it with her right-hand fingertips. Was this what Plexiglas felt like? Maybe it _was_ shatterproof. Next to big picture window was a small, rectangular one that could be opened slightly, enough to let the breeze come in through the screen. If the crank-open window itself could be removed and the screen kicked out, Justine figured she could easily shimmy through the frame.

But she wasn't suicidal. Her ruminations were not on her own behalf; she was thinking of her new roommate. Justine didn't know whether the roommate was suicidal but she didn't want her there. No way _that_ girl could fit through the small window.

Her name was Cindy and she was the latest to join the contingent of younger patients. Cindy was eighteen years old, a brunette with long hair. Cindy was almost as tall as Justine but weighed much more. Her flabby body was an affront to Justine.

"Ought to be suicidal," she muttered to herself. "I'd be suicidal if I looked like her."

It had been bad enough just looking at her but it turned out that Cindy was bulimic. Utterly disgusting! At least there hadn't been any vomiting yet. The first whiff of any and Justine would demand to be reassigned to a better room.

She dropped down onto her bed and thought angrily about Dr. Adams. The big jerk wasn't going to give her a discharge date anytime soon. The dirty bastard! Justine had said maybe she'd sign the three-day notice to leave against medical advice. But the doctor had wrinkled his big nose, twitched his thick mustache and warned her that she was courting commitment.

Although Justine thought her psychiatrist had been bluffing, it hadn't been worth risking it. Hillside had been a big step down from McLean and God only knew what was going to be next. Keeping that "next" from being unbearable was all that really mattered.

Justine decided that she could put up with her parents long enough to figure out a way to get her freedom. But she'd have to be careful; next time they might really have her committed somewhere. Bad enough they couldn't afford McLean anymore.

Maybe some guy would help her out. Some decent boyfriend who had a little money. No more possessive jerkoffs like Todd. Somebody older, probably. Lots of horny older guys out there. Wouldn't have to be real old, either. Some guy settled in his thirties would be fine.

Justine smiled up at the ceiling. Poor Patrick. He was such a nice, cute guy but totally out of her league. Dr. Adams had actually brought it up during their last session. She'd denied anything more than a friendship between them but the doctor had continued as if Justine had confessed everything. He talked about a contextual relationship: a "shipboard romance", as he put it.

That had really irked Justine, almost enough to make her deny it once too often. As if she was going to lose her head to some patient. Patrick was a good kisser and a welcome distraction but didn't have the wherewithal to really help her out.

Justine laughed and crossed her ankles. Maybe she could keep Patrick around later on. See him on the side if the other guy wasn't such a good kisser. Nice idea as long as Patrick wouldn't mind being the other man.

Because Patrick didn't have any weekend pass to take him back to Waltham over the weekend, Scott came to see him on Friday evening instead. He brought more cash although Patrick hadn't been able to spend all of the forty dollars from the last time.

"Another twenty should do it," Patrick insisted. "There's not much to spend money on when you're in here. If I happen to need more, I can always call you, right?"

Scott nodded. They were sitting in the day room at the same table where Patrick had usually taken his meals with Justine and Charley. Scott seemed preoccupied; he wasn't giving Patrick a lot of eye contact and kept looking down to the other end of the day room.

This place scares him, Patrick thought. Yeah... the fucking looney bin! I can't afford to be scared of it: I have to live here.

But, as usual, he didn't care to vocalize his accusations.

"I... heard from your boss," Scott reported.

"Oh, really?"

Scott had already mentioned that he'd called up old man Martin at Martin's Liquors to explain Patrick's absence. Although Patrick was certain that his boss had a typically bigoted impression of the mentally ill, Mr. Martin had told Scott that his brother's fate was going to be taken under consideration.

"Has that old goat made up his mind to fire me?"

"I'm afraid so, Patrick."

"So what? I'm sick of that place, anyway. Besides, now I can apply for disability."

Scott smiled thinly. It was clearly not an approving smile but Patrick didn't care.

"Listen," Scott said. "How are you doing? I mean, you know..."

"Yeah I _know_ ," Patrick replied. "You'll be glad to hear that I know the DEA isn't watching me, after all."

The relief in Scott's face was plain.

"As a matter of fact," Patrick continued, lowering his voice, "I would love to get stoned again."

_That_ was bad news to Scott. He licked his lips, glanced back towards the kitchen area again, and tried to figure out what to do with his hands.

"I don't know. Don't care, either."

"How would it mix with the medication you're taking?"

"One way to find out."

"Patrick, you can't be serious!"

"I am serious. I'm not talking about lighting up while I'm in here, though. More like as soon as I get home. Have you got a stash right now?"

"No."

"Come on."

"I'm serious," Scott snapped. "What's wrong with you? You haven't asked about scoring weed in... in months."

"I'm not afraid to use it anymore. That's what Reagan wants, to make us afraid to use 'bad' drugs. It made me have my breakdown. I'm fighting back now. Isn't that a good thing?"

Scott shook his head slowly. Ever since junior high school, the two of them had smoked dope together. It had declined from a regular, almost daily activity as they'd grown older. But in the several days since Patrick's psychotic episode, Scott had wondered whether the marijuana had at least contributed to his brother's condition. The possibility alone had made the whole idea of even smelling weed smoke distasteful.

What is it? Scott wondered. Two steps forward, one step back? Or could it be the other way around?

But he had to approach this more diplomatically. After all, Patrick was still in the midst of treatment. Best leave it to the professionals. That gave him an idea.

"Why don't you ask your doctor about mixing weed and your pills?"

"Why ask a question when I already know the answer?"

"So you admit it wouldn't be good for you?"

"No, what I'm saying is, Dr. Kearney wouldn't encourage me to use illegal drugs. It'd be... unethical. If it was legal, maybe he'd prescribe it for me. Shit, if it was legal, I wouldn't even be in here."

Scott maintained a discreet silence.

CHAPTER 10:

SOCIAL SKILLS

"Why didn't you introduce me to your brother?" Justine asked when she met Patrick in the smoking room.

"Oh, I don't know. Sorry. I just didn't think of it."

"Oh, really?" Justine asked, grinning. "Come sit down."

She was wearing a pair of pale blue shorts that covered the top third of her long, sleek thighs. The tank top was less revealing only because Justine had less to reveal when it came to her chest.

"I... I think Scott's uncomfortable in here," Patrick told her, distracted by those legs. "You know why."

"Scared of people like me?" Justine giggled.

"Not you," Patrick whispered. "More like _him_."

He nodded towards the opposite corner where Wyatt was hunched over in a chair, indifferently smoking a filterless cigarette. At least he'd stopped muttering to himself lately.

"Asshole," Justine hissed.

"He might've heard you," Patrick whispered nervously.

"Well, I'm not afraid of him."

"Why not?"

"I've got you here to protect me," Justine said, taking his hand.

Her touch felt wonderful. Patrick gazed dreamily at their long, intertwined fingers. Justine was rubbing the tip of her thumb over Patrick's thumb joint; their hands were resting on the warm skin of Justine's thigh. Patrick was getting an erection.

"There'll be a van ride tomorrow sometime," Justine told him softly.

"Uh-huh," Patrick murmured, still fixated on their hands.

"Let's make sure that we both get to go on that ride."

"Yeah..."

Patrick looked up into Justine's eyes, wanting to kiss her right then and there. But even Wyatt was a potential witness as long as he seemed to be getting more lucid. Justine smiled at Patrick, obviously wanting to kiss him as well. Was it worth the risk? Maybe no one would believe Wyatt even if he did blab about it.

"Hey, break it up in there!"

Patrick jerked his head sharply away from Justine's face and pulled his fingers loose. Charley was standing there in the doorway. Patrick blinked a couple of times but no staff member materialized behind his roommate.

"You son of a bitch!" Patrick sputtered. "You scared the shit out of me!"

"Hey-hey!" Charley said with a grin. "Coulda been worse, man! Oughta be more careful!"

"I... I guess so," Patrick admitted, rubbing his forehead. "Have a seat."

"No, I'm going downstairs before they close the snack bar. Wanna come?"

"Well, why not?"

"How 'bout you?" Charley asked Justine.

"Don't talk to me."

Charley smiled and shook his head. Patrick stood up uneasily and looked back down at Justine.

"Go on," she said, pulling a cigarette from the pack he'd bought for her.

"See you on the van trip?" Patrick asked hopefully.

"Sure," Justine promised him with a smile. "And before that... and after..."

Art, the counselor with the thick mustache, was happier than any of the patients to see the van was back in working order. He worked in a research facility during the rest of the week and his part-time hours at Hillside covered the Friday evening shifts plus twelve hour shifts – seven to seven – on the weekends. After almost as much experience as Frank, he was about as cynical as staff members could get, refusing to take anything too seriously.

Friday afternoon, Art had nodded frequently as Frank gave him detailed instructions about how to maintain the structured care plan he had designed for Anthony Gingarella. As soon as Frank had left for home, not to return until Monday morning, Art had shrugged and wandered off to the day room. He would barely speak to Anthony that evening, otherwise taking the patient's word for it when Anthony said he was doing fine.

For his part, the young patient was delighted to replace his catheter on his own. So what if there had been a puddle under the bed? Anthony would let nature take its course and the urine would dry out by itself overnight. That counselor Art was respectful of Anthony's autonomy.

The next morning, however, Anthony was resentful that he would not be allowed to go on the van ride. Dr. Adams hadn't yet written any privileges for him.

"I still want to go!" Anthony shouted during the activity meeting, the abbreviated, weekend version of the ward assembly.

It was normally a casual gathering, used primarily to announce the planned outings for the day. No need to carry the tables out or threaten to suspend privileges for absenteeism. None of the patients who did attend usually bothered to voice any complaints but here was Anthony, making a nuisance of himself; other patients fidgeted as he spoke.

Simon presided over the meeting with no additional staff on hand. He got up from the sofa armrest where he'd been leaning casually and stepped up to the table between himself and Anthony, who was sitting in his wheelchair.

"Can't help you," Simon explained. "Doctor's orders."

"What about my rights as a human being?"

"Your rights as a _what_?" Justine asked sneeringly from the far table, where she sat tantalizingly close to Patrick.

Simon shot she a reproachful glare. Justine said nothing, not wanting to risk a ward restriction.

"We both have to obey doctor's orders," Simon continued with Anthony. "If you aren't satisfied, you can take it up with him on Monday."

"Couldn't you bend the rules and take me out in the van anyway?"

"Are there any more announcements," Linda asked, standing up from her seat, "or can the rest of us leave?"

"Nothing more for now," Simon told her with a nod. "Meeting adjourned!"

"But I haven't finished!" Anthony protested.

"If you let him go on that van ride," Justine said as she passed behind Anthony's wheelchair, "I'm going to stay right here!"

Patrick had stumbled against Justine's empty chair and so lagged behind her by several paces. Pausing before going out the door to follow her, he looked at Simon to say: "She, uh, didn't mean that."

"Yes, she did," Simon countered. "But it doesn't matter. Go sign up for the ride while there's still room in the van."

As soon as Patrick was gone, Simon returned his attention to Anthony.

"Now listen," he said calmly. "Could we physically take you out to the van, let you ride to the park and back? Yes."

Anthony grinned expectantly.

"But everything you do here today has to be reported. We tell the charge nurse what all of you did today. She passes it on to the evening nurse, the evening nurse passes it on to the night nurse, and so on. Then Stacey hears about it in the shift report on Monday morning. She's your team leader, Anthony, and she _knows_ you don't have privileges. She tells the head nurse, who calls me into her office and asks me how Anthony Gingarella got to go outside the hospital on Saturday. You expect me to say: 'Gee, Rachel, he really, really wanted to go on the van ride so I said it was okay'?"

"You could," Anthony replied.

"I could," Simon agreed. "I could also get fired. Do you understand now?"

"It's still not fair!"

Simon shrugged and walked slowly out of the room. Anthony wheeled back from the table and rolled his way into the corridor. He saw Simon disappear into the staff office and close the door. Looking farther down the corridor, Anthony noticed Patrick, Justine, and Charley standing in front of the bulletin board next to the entrance.

They were writing their names on the signup list for the van ride. None of them seemed to notice Anthony. Patrick and Justine headed on down towards the smoking room with Charley trailing after them.

Anthony continued to propel himself forward, using his feet. It annoyed him when other patients – especially that tall, thin girl – hassled him for using the chair. Just because his legs weren't paralyzed didn't mean he didn't need to roll instead of walk sometimes. If she had unsteady hips like his, well, then she wouldn't jeer at him. It was so rude!

Reaching the bulletin board, Anthony locked the wheels into place and pushed himself up from the armrests. He tottered forward and leaned against the wall, then looked at the signup sheet. So far, only Justine, Patrick, and Charley had scrawled their names over the hand-drawn lines. Five slots remained.

Anthony grabbed the ball-point pen hanging from a bit of twine, the other end stapled to the board. He wrote his first name in a looping, childish flourish over line number four.

Anthony decided it was like signing his very own declaration of independence.

Meanwhile, Patrick was inhaling the cigarette exhaust from Justine, Charley, and Linda. The older woman smiled at them, as if she knew all about Patrick and Justine's budding couple hood, knew about it and approved. But Patrick still kept his hands to himself.

Charley was sitting on the table that overlooked the short sofa. He was swinging his legs as he smoked, hanging around until nervous energy took him on another walk back down the hallway or off to the snack bar.

"You think Simon's going to be along for the van ride?" Patrick asked warily.

"He told me he was," Charley responded. "Somebody's got to keep an eye on you two!"

"Charley!" Patrick shouted. "Damn it!"

"Ignore him," Justine said with a yawn. "He talks so much, no one really listens to him."

Charley laughed loudly in response.

"See? Look at him: ought to be mad at me but he just laughs like a hyena!"

"So I'm a happy motherfucker," Charley replied with a shrug. "You should try it sometime, you're always in such a shitty mood."

"That's 'cause I'm smart enough to see what's going on. You're _so_ simple minded!"

"Now kids," Linda spoke up. "Don't fight."

Patrick nodded with gratitude. He had like Linda since the day they'd met and hoped that his girlfriend would listen to this motherly advice. Justine, however, wasn't going to let anyone else have the last word on the subject at hand.

"Why don't you do us a favor," she asked Charley, "and escape from the trip? Go run home. Wouldn't that be a fun adventure for you?"

Her tone was so nasty that Patrick cringed. He wondered if Charley was enduring her abusive contempt out of friendship for him. Or was Charley just being himself, enjoying whatever attention a girl might give him, even if it was negative?

"Yeah, yeah," Charley said. "Maybe I will! No promises, though! You ain't seen the last of me!"

With that, Patrick's roommate dropped from the table and scurried out of the room. Justine and Linda rolled their eyes in unison. It seemed that Linda was almost as much of a high-privileged snob as Justine.

"Maybe I'll escape," Patrick remarked mildly. "It would be an adventure I guess. Of course I'd hate to have Simon tackle me."

"He can't touch you out there," Linda said. "It's the law."

"Really?" Patrick asked.

"Seriously," Linda insisted. "They can put you in restraints in _here_ , but outside you're free. You're at a point where your doctor has decided to, like, trust you. The staff is taking the risk letting you go outside, not you."

"I... I never thought of it that way," Patrick said.

"See?" Justine chirped. "You listen to people like us, not dingbats like Charley."

Before Patrick could dispute that comment, he heard a shuffling gait approaching from the hallway. He looked to the doorway, assuming that Wyatt was about to come into the room and make them all uncomfortable. But no, it was Cindy, Justine's roommate.

It looked like she hadn't been awake for more than a few minutes. Her long, dark hair was tangled and matted, her face puffy. Cindy was wearing a pale blue bathrobe with her large breasts filling out the top, threatening to put cleavage into the neckline.

Cindy coughed and wandered over to a folding chair. Patrick smiled at her politely but she didn't seem to notice.

"Anyone got a cigarette?" Cindy asked in a deep, hoarse voice.

"Here you go, dear," Linda said, extracting one of her menthols.

Cindy showed gratitude in her smile; Linda also lit the thing for her.

"My folks would kill me if they knew I was smoking'," Cindy said, her smile widening further.

"They don't approve of smoking?" Patrick asked.

"It's one more thing that's sendin' me to hell, they say."

"Oh, yeah?" Patrick asked, smiling. "What are some of the others?"

"Takin' the Lord's name in vain. Getting' bad grades. Talkin' back to my folks. Losin' my virginity before marriage."

Patrick chuckled nervously. Cindy smiled at him.

"I did that," she said. "Honest."

"I believe you," Patrick told her.

Justine kicked his ankle almost instantaneously. She snuffed out what was left of her cigarette and stood up.

"I'm going for a walk," she said tersely. "Want coffee?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Wait for me in the day room. You don't want to be breathing in all this smoke, right?"

A jealous girlfriend, Patrick thought behind his smile as he idly watched a cartoon show from the day room sofa. I never had anyone get jealous over me before.

It was almost ten o'clock. The little field trip wasn't going to be until after lunch. Patrick wondered how long Justine would stay outside. Was she pouting? Then again, if she was all that jealous, how could she let him sit around here, wide open to her imagined rival?

Cindy didn't happen to stop by the day room while Patrick was waiting. But that didn't bother him. The girl seemed nice enough but Patrick didn't find her attractive, despite Justine's worries. Cindy was too fat for him.

Skinny Justine barged into the room around 10:30. She seemed to be angry at first – at least she wasn't smiling at him for some reason. But Justine did have a take-out cup of coffee with her. She put the cup on the armrest next to Patrick, then leaned in close. Justine planted a kiss right on his lips; an angry kiss that almost hurt him. She barely parted her lips as Patrick squirmed.

"J-Justine," he gasped after she stood back up, "we're out in the open!"

"I don't care who knows about us," Justine declared. "As long as _you_ know about us!"

Patrick glanced back and forth. Three patients were in the day room with them but no staff.

Albert, the pudgy alcoholic, was one of them. He smiled slightly under his white mustache. Patrick hoped he was right in assuming Albert was on their side. Another of the patients was a middle-aged woman named Clara. She seemed to be too invested in her own depression to notice what Justine had done. Finally, there was Anthony.

Jesus! Patrick thought. Anthony!

He was grinning happily at them from the other side of the long table. Patrick didn't care whether Anthony approved but was worried about his discretion. He had some success so far in getting Charley to keep their secret but had no idea of how to handle Anthony.

Before he could consider the options, a piercing shriek came from the hallway. Patrick felt Justine's hand clutching his.

"You dirty bastard! You son of a bitch!"

Simon heard it from the staff office. He scrambled up from the table and dashed into the hallway. Looking to his left, he saw what the fuss was about.

Wyatt was walking towards him, head dipped slightly, shoulders hunched. Trudy Maxwell was several paces behind him, standing by the sign-in desk. She was shaking her right index finger at Wyatt's back.

Simon let Wyatt go past him without question or comment. Then he went over to Trudy.

"He gave me the finger, that bastard!" Trudy shouted, her bright eyes blazing. "The _finger_! I bought that scumbag _cigarettes_ and he does _that_ to _me_?"

"Oh, uh," Simon reacted, glancing between Trudy and the still-moving Wyatt. "I'll talk to him, Trudy. I will."

" _Talk_ to him?" Trudy scowled. "He needs more than that!"

"He'll be restricted to his room," Simon declared. "I'm going after him now."

"He'd better _stay_ in there if he knows what's good for him!" Trudy yelled, now pointing at Simon. "You tell him for me, buddy: no more favors!"

Simon nodded, noticing the self-inflicted cigarette burns along Trudy's spindly forearm. Wyatt had just crossed the angriest woman in Eastern Massachusetts.

Charlotte, the weekend day shift's charge nurse, caught up with Simon as he passed the staff office door. She had been using the employee toilet when the commotion had started.

"What happened?" Charlotte asked.

She was a small, chubby woman in her late thirties. Her baby-doll face was framed with reddish-brown curly hair.

"Wyatt just flipped the bird at Trudy," Simon explained as Charlotte fell in beside him.

"Uh-oh."

"He's lucky she didn't break that finger. I think we need to get him away from the other patients for a while."

"Seclusion room?"

"No," Simon replied, looking down at her. "His own room, I think. For now."

"Hold up there!"

At first, Simon thought the nurse was about to rebuke him for taking the lead in this situation. After all, Charlotte was in charge on the floor until 3:00 and actually outranked him. Simon was embarrassed, worried that he looked like some presumptuous macho fool to Charlotte.

But she had something else in mind. They were just a few steps away from the day room.

"You want to go in there all by yourself?" Charlotte asked quietly. "Art's on his break. Should I call upstairs for backup?"

"It's okay," Simon replied. "I'll give Wyatt the chance to cooperate without too much intimidation."

"All right," Charlotte said skeptically. "Just stay out his hitting range."

"Right," Simon agreed, grateful for that consideration.

"One more thing," Charlotte added. "I'll wait and see if he goes willingly, then offer him a PRN. There's one on order."

Simon nodded, took a deep breath, and strode into the day room. Wyatt was standing by the refrigerator, a silly grin in his face. He was holding a paper cup. With a half-gallon milk carton on the counter, Simon could guess what Wyatt had chosen to drink. He was aware of the other patients in the day room watching as he approached the offending party.

"Wyatt, it's time to go to your room."

"What for?"

"I think you know what for. We can't tolerate disrespectful behavior around here."

"Aw, you're spoiling my fun," Wyatt said, still grinning.

"Let's go," Simon told him firmly. "One hour in your room."

Wyatt finished his milk and left the cup on the counter alongside the carton. Then he walked slowly past Simon and on out the door. Charlotte got out of Wyatt's path and kept watching as Simon shadowed the patient down the hall to his room.

Then she hurried back to the nurse's station to pour the dose of liquid Thorazine. Charlotte tried to will her pulse back down into a double-digit rate. Simon had been talking about being a chaperone for Patrick and Justine on the afternoon outing. But with Wyatt becoming unstable, Charlotte wouldn't feel safe unless the young counselor stayed on the ward with her.

Simon's got to be over six feet tall and must weigh at least two hundred and twenty-five pounds, she estimated. Can't spare that kind of protection. Who cares if those kids make out in the park, anyway?

Charlotte didn't want to order Simon to do anything. Carrying the little plastic shot glass down to Wyatt's room, she thought she might drop a hint that he was needed, mixed with some flattery about his size and strength, a pretty good way to get a man to do something useful.

But after Wyatt gulped down the sedative and flopped back on his bed, Simon ushered Charlotte out into the hall, where he told her he'd better stay behind to watch Wyatt. Art could handle the van trip on his own.

"If you think that's best," Charlotte responded coyly.

CHAPTER 11:

SETTING LIMITS

The hospital van was perhaps better described as a big station wagon or a repurposed airport limousine. It was painted silver and rode high over the ground. The van could easily accommodate ten or a dozen people; seven patients had been allowed to take the ride. Art had ignored Anthony's bid for freedom without comment. Because Art was the sole staff member on the outing, hospital policy limited the number of patients based on their level of privileges. Four per staff member was the maximum for patients not at liberty to walk outside hospital grounds on their own.

Patrick, Albert, and Justine were exempt from that limit. While Charley normally required supervision outside the hospital, his day pass made that policy irrelevant in this instance. Otherwise, the remaining three patients had only the most rudimentary privileges, meaning Art would need to keep them all within his sight. But the trio were all quiet and evidently grateful for the fresh air and change of scenery.

Patrick and Justine claimed the station wagon-style rear storage area for themselves. From there, they could touch each other in several places without Art being able to see what they were doing by looking in the rear view mirror or over his shoulder at them. Charley took his place in the seat right ahead of them and leaned over the back of it so he could talk to Patrick.

The van rattled in several places as Art backed out of the parking space and wheeled it towards the street. Patrick wondered if it might break down again that very afternoon. But the vehicle held together long enough for them to reach the park, about a twenty-minute drive.

Even before anyone got out of the van, Art reminded them that the patients with lower level privileges had to keep close to him. The rest could roam the park ground as they wished but all needed to meet back at the van within two hours.

"I've got my watch," Patrick said.

"Don't lose it anywhere," Art responded teasingly.

Justine had been to this park before so they didn't have to waste much time looking for a secluded place. Patrick didn't ask whether she'd gone there with Todd. In this case, ignorance was definitely bliss. Charley was being a pest, however, walking close behind them. This was one time that Patrick was not feeling indulgent with his roommate.

Justine led them along a dirt path below some tall oak trees. The sky was a rich blue and a light breeze was mitigating the humidity. Next, they crashed through some high grass and milkweed. A meadow was just beyond, screened by a hedge. The hedge itself was so unkempt that Patrick hoped this was some forgotten corner of the park. A corner that could stay forgotten for at least the next hour.

They walked through some more weeds and wildflowers. Justine took Patrick's hand and led him to a mossy mound of earth. She dropped his hand and turned to face him, put her arms around his waist, leaned against him, and initiated another kiss. It was an aggressive kiss but without the anger behind the one she'd given him in the day room.

Patrick slowly bent his knees and carried her with him to the ground. He slipped his right hand under Justine's T-shirt and caressed his way up to her soft little breasts under a silky bra. He teased her nipples into arousal, Justine's kisses growing ever more frantic as his fingers worked on her; she emitted a muffled squeal.

Patrick blindly guided his left knee up between Justine's thighs and ground it against her crotch. In response, Justine flexed her hips over and over, squeezing her thighs against his to hold him there.

"God, I'm wet!" Justine whispered into his ear.

Patrick was so hard himself that it seemed like he would soon ejaculate inside his jeans. Clumsily, he reached down to the button and zipper on her cutoffs.

"Hey!" Justine gasped as he struggled with the button. "What d'you think you're doing?"

"I... I want you..."

"Slow down, cutie."

"But.."

"But, nothing! We can't do it _here_!"

"Please, Justine!"

"Damn it, stop!" Justine shouted, twisting out of his embrace.

"What's wrong?" Patrick whined.

"I told you: we can't do it _here_ ," Justine snapped, reaching for the pack of cigarettes that she'd dropped. "What are you, stupid or something?"

"I... I really didn't think that anyone..." Patrick murmured feebly, helpless in front of her hard, unhappy glare.

Finally, he looked away and scanned the immediate area.

"Hey," Patrick reported, "Charley's gone."

"Damn well should be."

"Showed a little class for once," Patrick remarked playfully, hoping to make Justine smile.

"Unless he's watching us from the high grass," she replied, exhaling smoke. "Watching us and jerking off."

Patrick chuckled nervously, shaking his head. He stared at Justine's bare calves and thought that maybe they really were too thin. Patrick drew his knees up and put his hands on them.

"Hey," Justine said softly, "we'll really do it sometime, I promise. Like after we're out for good. You know I want you, right?"

"Right," Patrick said, sighing with relief.

They sat quietly, holding hands, listening to the sounds of birds and children.

"You boned her, didn't ya?" Charley asked as soon as they were back in their room later that day.

"No!" Patrick told him harshly.

He slammed the dresser drawer shut and considered walking out on Charley in a huff. Then Patrick realized that his roommate had actually shut up for a moment.

"Hey, dude," Charley finally said, "I believe you."

"Sorry," Patrick said softly, leaning against the dresser. "I shouldn't have taken it out on you."

"It's cool."

"I suppose you realize I wasn't lying to protect her reputation."

"Reputation? What do you mean?"

"Forget it. I guess _you're_ getting laid tomorrow."

"Oh, _yeah_!"

"Well, see?" Patrick said eagerly. "That's the way to do it, in the privacy of your own home – or maybe hers – not out in some field where anybody could walk in on you."

"When are you getting out of here?" Charley asked, sitting down on his bed. "Doc Kearney give you a discharge date yet?"

"No such luck. He told me that I could go when they're sure that the pills are working. I already know they are."

Charley nodded.

"No more anxiety attacks," Patrick elaborated. "And now I know what's really going on out there."

"They should let you go!"

"You bet they should."

"I'm gonna give you my address up at the farm, my phone number. If I don't fuck up my pass tomorrow, I get to go home Wednesday!"

Patrick nodded; he'd already heard that from Charley four days earlier and at least once a day since.

"But when you get out, call me up sometime. Come up and visit! I'll show you the stupid, God-damned sheep, also my lady."

One of the herd? Patrick thought cruelly, then scolded himself for that unspoken insult.

"I appreciate that, Charley."

He didn't know what to do about Justine. They sat together in the day room and the smoking room but barely spoke. It was as if coming so close to having sex, it was somehow impossible to revert back to longing flirtation. Justine's promise for more later was hanging over his head. A distraction. He could only wonder what Justine was thinking since he was afraid to ask.

At least she still let Patrick hold her hand. The staff had caught them doing that after Simon had left for the day. But Patrick no longer cared and Justine had already proclaimed as much in front of witnesses.

She let Patrick kiss her some more in as they rode the elevator that evening. He understood without having to be told that her chest was not to be touched unless Justine put his hands there herself. That night, Patrick followed his routine release of his arousal as Charley snored nearby.

The next day was duller than Saturday had been. Another van ride was scheduled but Anthony didn't agitate for a seat in the vehicle. Wyatt behaved himself, reverting to psychotic introspection all morning. Charley's parents came by at nine o'clock and took him off to Essex County. Justine passed on the Sunday van ride but Patrick signed up for it. Simon again volunteered to stay behind in case Wyatt took a sudden, aggressive turn; he didn't think it was likely but he enjoyed having this excuse to reassure the skittish little Charlotte. When she'd expressed her gratitude by smiling up at him and giving his forearm a little squeeze, their mutual attraction was all but acknowledged. Of course, as a wife and a mother to three young children, Charlotte wasn't going to mislead Simon and she could sense that he respected her, anyway.

The turn Wyatt did take was not violent yet it was surprising. Simon went in to check on Wyatt after lunch. Art had told him that the patient refused to come out and take his meal tray. Since Simon was assigned to Wyatt that shift, he took it upon himself to see if Wyatt would have anything to say.

"I remember you," Wyatt muttered as he sat up in bed.

"I hope so," Simon responded, standing a safe distance back. "Remember my name?"

Wyatt shook his head.

"Simon. That's my name."

"Simple-Simon-met-a-pie-man!" Wyatt recited rapidly, following it with a wheezing laugh.

"You missed lunch, breakfast, too."

"Not hungry."

"How about thirsty? Want to get up and have some milk, or something?"

"Nah, no thanks."

Simon hesitated before trying to coax Wyatt further.

"You know, it's unhealthy to isolate yourself in here all day."

Wyatt shrugged and scratched the side of his face.

"Well, if you need anything," Simon told him as he turned to leave, "come and see me."

"Hey-hey-hey!" Wyatt called after him. "You... Simon!"

"Yes, Wyatt?"

"You know, I'd like to shave. Could you get me a razor?"

"Sure," Simon answered, smiling at him. "Of course, I'll have to stand by and watch. You're under... restrictions..."

"I'd rather have you do it for me, if that's okay," Wyatt said in a monotone. "My hands shake sometimes. I might cut myself."

"No problem. I'll be right back."

Simon reported the good news to Charlotte in the staff office. Surely, Wyatt's interest in grooming was a positive development. Simon gathered a plastic basin, towel, safety razor, and pocket-sized can of shaving cream. Charlotte was pleased to hear that Wyatt was acting more human. Perhaps the extra Thorazine had been responsible. Thank God and Dr. Kearney it had been prescribed in liquid form.

Wyatt's beard was tough after several days' growth. Simon had to dip the razor into the warm water in the basin many times. He'd shake the little hairs and foam loose from the twin blades in the water. Wyatt said nothing as the counselor shaved him. Simon found the weak chin to be a particular challenge; damned if he was going to cut the poor guy after he'd said he was afraid of doing it to himself.

Finally, Simon dabbed the towel over Wyatt's face and went to dump the water into the sink. Wyatt touched his face with both hands.

"Thank you," he said. "I'm too much of a perfectionist to shave myself."

"You're welcome. Now, could I press my luck and ask you to take a shower?"

"Uh, okay. But I can wash myself in there."

Patrick had decided that this would be his final weekend in Hillside Hospital. Monday morning, he would dare ask Dr. Kearney for a discharge date. Well, maybe he could tolerate one more weekend as a patient if he could at least be promised a departure day within the next ten days or so.

If not, well, Patrick had a Plan B. He'd have to play it cool, pretend to accept his plight. The plight of indefinite voluntary commitment. That was key to Plan B; he had to keep his privileges so he could take off when he had the chance.

What was it Art had called it?

"Elopement," Patrick whispered to himself, staring out the smoking room window at the parking lot below.

It had a romantic ring to it, all right.

After dark, Patrick told Justine about his schemes – Plan A and Plan B. They were sitting in the day room at the far end of the table in their preferred spot for meal times. Patrick felt confident that they wouldn't be overheard.

"Great idea, cutie," Justine reacted, smiling as she rubbed his left ankle with the toe of her running shoe.

"Th-then we could... you know..."

" _Fuck_ ," Justine said with a leer. "Yeah, baby."

"You, um, want my address?"

"I'll get it later, okay? I don't want to have it written down in my room, you know, where anybody could find it."

"Or, uh, maybe we could... like... agree to meet somewhere in Boston – downtown, say, and I could take you home with me from there."

"Yeah, well, whoever gets out first – one way or another – calls up the other and we arrange a date. Does that work for you?"

"Yeah, perfect!"

"How 'bout your brother?"

"My brother?"

"We go back to your place and... well, doesn't he live there with you?"

"He wouldn't care."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure. He'd be happy for me."

"Does he have a girlfriend?"

"What?"

"Does... he have a girlfriend?"

"Yeah, why?"

"I don't want him to molest me while I'm there. I'd be with _you_ , right?"

"Of course," Patrick said, frowning with distaste. "Scott's not like that, anyway. He's got more class than to hit on my date."

"Hope you're right."

Patrick was annoyed. Was Justine teasing him or was she paranoid? Or was she talking out some fantasy about having two guys at the same time? Maybe women had fantasies about that. After all, most men seemed excited by the idea of being in a threesome with two women. But Patrick didn't suppose Scott would find Justine so attractive given how very nice and curvy Arlene was.

"If it bothers you that much," Patrick said, "I'll tell him to get lost for a while."

"Whatever. It's no big deal but I would want us to have some privacy. That's what I meant."

After kissing Justine goodnight in the day room without checking for witnesses first, Patrick went to his room. He took off his shirt and washed his face, thinking that the ward's doorbell had gone off while the water was running. Maybe it was Charley getting in from his pass.

Patrick had left his door ajar and soon heard the familiar marching gait of Charley Doolan echoing down the hallway. Patrick smiled, glad that his friend hadn't eloped.

Charley breezed into the room, all grins and giggles.

"Have a good time?" Patrick asked, his question pointless.

"Oh, yeah! Hey, could you do me a big, big favor?"

"What?"

"Could I use some of your piss?" Charley asked, holding up a plastic specimen jar, still enclosed in a crackling cellophane bag.

"You bad boy," Patrick said amusedly. "What did you do?"

"I had a few beers, smoked a couple o' joints..."

" _You_ on _weed_?" Patrick asked, gaping as he took the specimen jar. "My God, what for?"

"Hey, man, hurry up before the nurse gets down here!"

"All right, all right. Lucky for you, I really need to go."

Patrick went into the toilet room. Because it was next to the shower, they didn't have to share the facility with any neighboring patients. Patrick quickly filled the specimen jar and then drained the rest of his bladder in the bowl. He flushed it and came back out to his eager roommate. Just to tease him, Patrick held the jar up out his reach.

"Come on!" Charley complained, none too seriously.

He waved his hand up at Patrick's and missed by a few inches. Patrick laughed but then worried that Charley might accidentally knock the jar from his hand. He didn't want that kind of mess to spill on the floor.

"Tell me something," Patrick said, giving the specimen to him. "Why did the nurse let you fill this on your own? I would've thought she'd want to stand outside the bathroom door to make sure you wouldn't cheat."

"Love the weekend staff!" Charley exclaimed. "They don't care!"

With that, the manic shepherd took off back down the hall. Patrick finished getting undressed and wondered if Charley might return the favor for him next weekend. But then that wasn't supposed to be possible, Patrick recalled. Thanks to his favor, Charley would pass the drug screen and most likely be discharged on schedule in three days.

"Guess I'll just have to keep off the dope myself," he murmured, getting into bed. "The DEA won't mind."

CHAPTER 12:

A SAFE PLACE

Frank came by to check on Anthony right after the change of shift report on Monday morning. Anthony had just begun to stir and was carefully easing himself out of bed.

"Good morning, Anthony," Frank said brightly. "How are you feeling today?"

"All right," the patient said softly as he slid his legs over the edge of the mattress.

"Time to get ready for the day, huh?" Frank said, standing over him. "A good start makes the day successful."

Anthony nodded.

"Now let's have a look at that catheter."

"All right, but I can do it myself."

"I'm not so sure, Anthony."

The reservoir bag was full from the night. Sitting in his undershorts, Anthony glowered as Frank took an empty replacement from the closet.

"Frank, please! I must – I must do this myself! I'll have to do it on the outside. Please, let me."

"Now, Anthony," the counselor sighed, starting to kneel down, "we'll cross that bridge later on."

"Art let me do it myself."

Frank glanced up at Anthony, his gray eyes bright with irritation. But it hadn't been his patient's fault. Quickly, Frank altered his expression into a more neutral look.

"Art let you do it himself? He, uh, wasn't supposed to do that. Could have asked the nurse to change it if he wasn't comfortable."

"He respected my freedom, Frank. I did a good job, too. I only spilled a little on the floor."

Frank, who had been kneeling on the linoleum, jerked himself into more of a squat. He peered down but the black surface made it hard to see any dried urine.

"It mostly got under the bed," Anthony reported. "It's all right, though. No one could step in it there."

"Listen to me, Anthony," Frank said tersely. "Until you can do this without spilling any, I will do it for you."

"But..."

"But nothing. You don't want to fight over the bag, do you? That would make a real mess."

"Will you let me do it myself before I leave, Frank?"

"We'll see about that."

"Then it _is_ possible?"

"Yes," Frank said, already taking hold of the plastic tube.

Grimly, Anthony now allowed Frank to proceed. He looked up at the ceiling.

"They kept telling me I was suicidal, Frank," Anthony said, recalling the old clinic.

"I know," Frank told him as he fastened Anthony's belt buckle.

"They kept telling me I was suicidal. I said I wasn't, they said I was. 'You're suicidal, Anthony! You're suicidal!'"

"Calm down, now," Frank urged him, putting his hand on Anthony's shoulder. "Put it behind you."

"I – I can't! They drove me to it, you know. I couldn't stand it anymore! I ran out of there... I ran and I – "

"It's almost time for breakfast."

"But I want to talk about this!"

"Anthony," the counselor said, bending down to look him in the eyes, "remember what we've discussed. Focus, keep focus. It's how you have to keep a grip on what's going on right _now_ , okay?"

Anthony's anger simmered behind his scowl. His hands twitched at his sides. Why did Frank have to try and shut him up half the time?

"Okay?" Frank repeated.

"All right," Anthony said through clenched teeth.

"I'll help you to your chair," Frank said, smiling.

"I can do it myself."

Dr. Kearney's answer had been vague but close enough for Patrick to delay implementation of Plan B. Or maybe, he thought, it should be called Plan E, as in elopement. But anyway, the psychiatrist had said "probably a week from today". Okay, one more weekend. But no more.

Patrick asked Justine about her own discharge date. She snapped back that she had none and wouldn't be getting one until she "kissed up" to Dr. Adams.

"That means I'll be here forever," Justine said with a sigh as they walked back to the elevator from the snack bar.

"No, you won't," Patrick said, caressing the small of her back.

"Thank you, cutie. You... you always calm me down."

They kissed right there, breaking lip contact when they heard the elevator coming to a stop behind the doors. But Patrick was still holding Justine's forearms when the doors opened to reveal Brenda the counselor. Patrick let go of Justine too late.

"Hey, uh, no physical contact," Brenda said nervously.

"Yeah, like _you_ could get any," Justine muttered as she walked past the counselor.

"What's that?" Brenda asked, sparked into irritation.

"Nothing. You're nothing. This whole place is nothing."

"If you want to be restricted to your room," Brenda said, holding the doors open, "keep talking that way."

Patrick was still outside the elevator, watching in utter discomfort. He could see that Justine was eager to talk back again and was barely able to hold it in. As for Brenda, she suddenly seemed more courageous than Patrick had though possible.

This time, Justine was too upset for Patrick to calm her down. No more affection between them as they rode up without Brenda.

"She's got a thin little chicken neck," Justine was saying. "I'd like to snap that chicken neck of hers."

She spoke so coldly that Patrick felt queasy. He wondered if Justine really was capable of violence. But, like Charley, she seemed far more of a talker than a doer. Maybe there was something in the air. When they got back inside the voluntary ward, Patrick saw evidence that something was.

"Well, look at that," Justine whispered as they approached the sign-in desk.

Patrick followed her gaze and saw Frank standing outside the seclusion room door. He was looking through the little square window.

"Someone's in there," Justine said. "Wanna bet who it is?"

Frank overheard her and turned his head towards them.

"We don't need any spectators here," he said firmly. "Day room, smoking room, or your own rooms, okay?"

"I need a cigarette," Justine remarked as if Frank hadn't said a word. "Let's go."

They met Linda in the smoking room.

"What happened up here?" Justine asked as she led Patrick to the sofa.

"That maniac Wyatt," Linda answered with a sigh. "He went off in the day room. Turned over a table, tried to hit one of the counselors before they took him down."

"Which one?" Patrick asked.

"Which counselor?"

He nodded.

"Frank. They had to buzz the locked ward to get help. You missed it – quite a show."

"What do you mean they buzzed the locked ward?"

"They got panic buttons down here. The staff can set off an alarm for emergencies with violent patients. Press the button and a buzzer goes off upstairs and they send down some of their heavyweights. Then there's a buzzer on this floor to call this staff. I heard it go off down here once. You should've seen those guys run. Frank, Kris, Simon. They go up and down by the fire door down next to the pay phones."

Linda lit another cigarette.

"I know about how the panic buttons work because I overheard the staff talking about them once."

"They'll ship that creep off to a state hospital," Justine said. "Or upstairs."

"That's right," Linda agreed. "Never should've been on our ward in the first place."

Patrick nodded, remembering how he'd once been Wyatt's roommate. It could've been him that Wyatt had taken a swing at. Wasn't this supposed to be a safe place?

Simon was working the evening shift this time. As a treatment team member, he generally performed his duties on the 7-3 shift so that he would be readily available to consult with the team nurse or even the psychiatrist. But staffing needs dictated that he and other team counselors rotate to the 3-11 shift one day a week.

Simon found it pleasant to sleep late after losing that opportunity over the previous Saturday and Sunday. He rented a room in a large house over in the upper-income suburb of Brookline; having several other housemates made it affordable to live there.

As was his habit, Simon entered through the south end fire door across from the smoking room. He looked in to see Patrick with Justine but, having heard the door latch click open, they'd had enough time to scoot another few inches apart on the sofa.

Patrick and Simon exchanged a brief greeting while Justine gave the counselor a sour look. It was not so much whether she actually liked Simon; he was more easygoing than Frank or Brenda, let alone Kris. The real problem was that Simon liked Patrick too much and probably made him eager to break him up with her. Justine wanted to believe that Simon was some faggot who wanted Patrick for himself but she knew better, having observed the big ape staring at the occupational therapy girl's ass. God help Patrick if he ever did that, Justine thought, clutching her boyfriend's knee after Simon had moved along.

Simon met Kris outside the seclusion room door. He frowned with disappointment.

"Wyatt?"

"Who else?"

Simon looked into the room himself. There was Wyatt, pacing around the enclosure. It was not a padded cell; the walls were smooth plastic and the only object in there was a vinyl coated pad for patients to lie down on. There was a toilet behind an internal door and an overhead light was built into the ceiling. A soft bulb was behind a plastic cover instead of something harsh like a fluorescent tube.

At first, Wyatt seemed placid enough as he paced but his back was to the door. Then, after he turned around at the far end of the chamber, Simon got a look at his face. It was contorted into a vicious scowl, something Simon hadn't seen from Wyatt before. He looked into Simon's eyes but gave no sign of recognizing him. Wyatt's muttering was too quiet to be heard through the door.

"Has he been medicated?" Simon asked, looking back to Kris.

"Not yet. Kearney left for the day an hour ago but they already beeped him. No one knows where Adams got to. If we don't get a chemical restraint and transfer order from one of our doctors, Gloria's going to call Dr. Brisbane up on the locked ward."

"Looks like I got here just in time," Simon remarked sardonically. "Now I can help hold him down for his needle in the butt."

"Yeah, Brenda's going to be happy to see you," Kris said with a grin. "There was even more fun on our ward than this but you'll hear about it in report."

By the time Simon settled in at the staff office table with his obligatory cup of coffee, he'd heard that Gloria received a telephone order from Dr. Kearney so that they could proceed after the shift report was done. The locked ward now had a vacancy and Dr. Brisbane had agreed to accept Wyatt following a call from Dr. Kearney.

As Kris had promised, there had been other developments among the patients during the day shift. Anthony had been put on room restriction until 3:45 due to an outburst in the day room. This had happened before Wyatt's own outburst in the same location. Only a short while ago, Brenda had caught Patrick and Justine touching each other. Since this was now the second time that staff had witnessed what had already been assumed, the matter now had to be dealt with directly.

Simon closed his eyes for a moment. He'd almost rather wrestle down Wyatt for the chemical restraint than confront Patrick over Justine. Now he'd have to do both.

Frank and Kris stayed on past their shift to assist in dealing with Wyatt, Rachel authorizing overtime pay for them. Neither complained about this emergency assignment but Brenda was openly delighted to be excused from it.

Getting ahold of Wyatt in the close quarters of the seclusion room wasn't easy but Frank and Simon were able to seize his elbows without being hit. The two burly men used their combined weight to push Wyatt to the floor, face down.

The patient shouted and squirmed but Kris and one of the regular evening shift counselors quickly grabbed onto his ankles and immobilized his knees from behind with their forearms. It was enough for Gloria to feel confident about moving in with the needle. She pulled down Wyatt's pants, which had been a loose fit across his hips anyway, and found a fleshy area to make the injection.

Wyatt howled, perhaps less in pain than in protest. Gloria hurried back out of the seclusion room while the counselors released Wyatt's limbs one at a time.

But Wyatt did not lash out and attack them. Rather, he continued to lie on the pad as though conceding defeat. The counselors left quickly all the same. Simon was the last one out; he pulled the door shut behind him and locked it.

"Let's give that injection some time to work, then run Wyatt upstairs," Rachel said, addressing the semi-circle of staff outside the seclusion room.

"Need us to stick around?" Frank asked.

"I think we'll be fine," Rachel replied. "We'll have some help from the locked ward counselors when it's time. I appreciate you and Kris staying to help out but you're free to go."

Kris smiled, nodded, and went back to the staff office to collect her pocketbook. Frank headed right for the main door. Then Rachel asked Simon to meet with her and Gloria in Dr. Kearney's office. Simon almost sighed out loud.

What the fuck was a towel doing in the sink?

Justine glared down at it, soaked and coiled like a snake. She didn't even want to touch it although there was probably nothing but water to be wrung out of the thing. Justine turned and looked at her roommate, who was lying face down on the bed.

She felt an urge to throw the towel right onto the back of Cindy's head. It would be a wonderful sight, wouldn't it? Water droplets would fan out in an arc, splatter all over the pillow and sheets. That fat slob would gasp, sputter, and mumble something stupid. Something like "whuh?" But it would really be doing her a favor, wouldn't it? Couldn't that black, stringy, greasy hair use some nice, clean water on it?

But no, Justine wouldn't do that. No need to give Adams any excuse to delay discharging her again. Time to be reasonable.

"Hey!" Justine said, her voice more shrill than it should have been. "What's with the towel, Cindy?"

"Huh?" Cindy replied, turning her face halfway up from the pillow.

"This God damned towel," Justine yelled, feeling her anger burning in reaction to Cindy's stupidity.

She actually reached into the sink and pulled the towel up, holding it at arm's length as it dripped over the drain.

"Look at this! Remember it?"

"Leave me alone," Cindy said, pushing her face back into the pillow.

"What were you trying to do, clog the drain and flood us out?"

Justine dropped the towel back into the sink. The sopping-wet cloth splashed up a bit of water onto Justine's blue jeans.

"God damn it!" Justine yelped. "You worthless cow!"

Cindy pulled the sheet up over her head.

"You _ugly_ , stupid piece of _shit_ ," Justine said, her voice hissing but soft in case a staff member walked past their door. "Why don't you just do yourself in? You're going to _hell_ anyway, right? That's what your parents say, _right_? Why not just get it over with and do the world a favor? You think my boyfriend wants you? _He doesn't_! _Nobody_ wants you, bitch! _Nobody_ would even _pay_ to do it with you! You couldn't _pay_ anyone enough to _do_ it with you! You're _that_ disgusting, so _why_ bother? _Why_ bother with anything? You listening, stupid? _Huh_? Are you listening to me?"

It was afternoon but Anthony didn't know what time it was. Supper would be up in an hour or so, he reckoned. His restriction period would be over by then. Anthony wondered if Frank would say goodbye to him before leaving for the day. Perhaps not. Perhaps that would be a violation of the terms for his restriction.

A gross injustice.

Numbly, Anthony reached down to touch his right leg where the catheter's reservoir was strapped under his pant leg. He felt the bulge; it was far from full, thank goodness. Anthony put his wrists on his knees and let his hands dangle. Lowering his head slightly, he stared at the black floor.

Anthony heard a politely soft knock on his door. He like that. Not everyone was so considerate.

"Come in."

It was Simon who opened the door. The lenses in Simon's glasses reflected the sunshine coming in the window behind Anthony.

"Hello, Simon. How are you?"

"Fine, thanks," the counselor replied with a smile. "I understand you've had a bit of a frustrating afternoon."

"Ha-ha!" Anthony laughed, tilting back his head. "Yes! A very frustrating afternoon."

He liked Simon's sense of humor, the relaxed understatement in his voice. That, and the way Simon always addressed him as Anthony. Simon had only needed to be corrected once. Some of the other staff still called him "Tony" when they ought to have known better. "Tony" was a child's name; Anthony was twenty-three.

"Well," Simon proceeded, his smile persistent, "let's see if you can have a better evening."

"Is Frank still here?"

"No," Simon responded, leaning against the door frame, "but he gave me the rundown on your day... in some detail."

Anthony, already studying the counselor's boyish face intently, noticed what appeared to be a slight arching in those eyebrows. "In some detail"! Frank had so many rules, so much advice. It had been Frank who'd sent Anthony back to his room, unjustly. Maybe that subtle reaction in Simon's face meant that he really understood, that he was a potential ally.

"It was the TV," Anthony reported forthrightly. "It was wrong for us to be watching garbage like that. Even Frank said so."

"Did he?" Simon reacted with a slight frown.

"Yes. I wanted to watch something more uplifting. It would have been better for everyone."

"Be that as it may, they voted you down. Majority rules."

"But what happens to the minority?"

Simon broke into a grin.

"You ask profound questions, Mr. Gingarella!"

"It's important, Simon."

"Of course it is and I wasn't being sarcastic. I've been on the short end of a vote myself, now and then. But you have to accept the will of the people and get over it. What you _don't_ do is make a scene in the day room."

"I was defending my rights."

"Choose your battles wisely, Anthony."

CHAPTER 13:

DISCIPLINARY ACTION

Justine was supposed to spend half of Tuesday with her parents thanks to another pass from Dr. Adams. She left around ten o'clock, about the same time that Dr. Kearney was meeting with his team on the fourth floor. Justine slipped Patrick a note in the day room before signing out.

He stuffed it into the pocket of his corduroys and walked into his room to read it.

Cutie-

If that dummy Charly can get out of here after a good pas so can I. So we're that much closer to doing it right your place or mine!!! Be a good boy Patrick or else. Stay out of Cindys pants or I'll have to cut it off. Just kidding cutie I'd want to keep it attached to your fine thin body you good looking real man. Don't wayst it on that FAT pig or yul brake my heart, seriusly. You're my boyfrend & I love you love you love you love you

Patrick was embarrassed by what Justine had written. He sighed and slowly sat on his bed. That terrible spelling and grammar bothered him because she had seemed so intelligent otherwise. Okay, so maybe Justine had a learning disability and couldn't help it. But what about that threat halfway down the note? Pretty harsh and enough to throw cold water over the four-letter word she'd repeated at the bottom of the torn notebook page.

What have I gotten myself into? Patrick wondered.

After lunch, Simon finally got around to calling on Patrick. So far, he had only been superficially cordial to his assigned patient but Patrick hadn't suspected bad news was at hand. It was often the case that counselors didn't have much to say to patients who weren't causing trouble on the ward.

Simon found Patrick in his room, tolerantly enduring a barrage of chatter from Charley. The manic young man's impending discharge had done nothing to cap his energy. As a matter of fact, Charley's understandable excitement over leaving added to his natural, if abnormal, hyperactivity.

"Hey, guys," Simon said from the doorway, "if I could interrupt your conversation, I need to have a word with Patrick."

"Scuse me," Patrick said to his roommate.

"Let's meet in Dr. Kearney's office, okay?"

"Fine."

As he followed the big counselor down the hallway, Patrick glanced up at the ceiling. He thought about Wyatt, and then remembered how Simon had tried to intimidate him into signing the conditional voluntary. He'd made the secure ward sound like a prison: no shoe laces, barred windows. Or were there bars? Patrick had looked up at the top floor windows from the sidewalk during his very first unescorted outside walk. He hadn't seen any actual bars, like in a jail cell, but noticed a metal lattice mesh screen over the patient room windows.

"Well, what's this about?" Patrick asked inside Dr. Kearney's office as he sat down. "Has my discharge date been set?"

"No," Simon replied softly, settling into the doctor's high-backed chair.

"What's up, then?"

"Okay, listen. You must know that your... relationship with Justine hasn't gone unnoticed."

Feeling a numb sense of trepidation, Patrick frowned.

"Especially since you've been seen touching each other twice now. We've had some strong suspicion that something had been going on even before we saw anything."

"S-so what?"

Patrick had meant to sound defiant, thinking of how his girlfriend would have handled this but the stutter betrayed him.

"I know it can be exciting to meet someone who likes you," Simon lectured. "Especially in what can be a hostile environment. But it's not a good idea to – "

"Why can't I have a girlfriend?" Patrick shouted. "Come on! We like each other, man! Besides, w-we haven't g-gone all the way, I _swear_!"

"I'm not saying I don't believe you," Simon responded in a tired yet calm voice. "But that isn't the point I was trying to make right now."

" _What_ , then?"

"You and Justine, you feel like you're close to each other, don't you?"

"Well, yeah..."

"Like you understand each other better than the staff understands either of you?"

"Wouldn't say that, necessarily. But, uh, Justine tells me I keep her calm, that having me near her keeps her anger under control."

"And is that why you're here? To keep Justine calm?"

_Fuck you_! Patrick almost said it but Simon could apparently read the words in his eyes.

"Sorry I put it that way," Simon muttered, much to Patrick's surprise. "I shouldn't be flippant. But still, it's true that you're here to work on your own issues and not get caught up in someone else's problems."

"That's not what it's like," Patrick protested. "So, you don't want us to kiss, is that it? You counselors and nurses and doctors all have people you can kiss and the patients don't. How nice for you."

"I can't debate you into agreeing with me about this," Simon admitted. "But there's something else I need to tell you; it came up in the team meeting today."

"What, more good news?"

"You won't think so. We were discussing your privileges in the meeting and there's been a change."

"A what?" Patrick exclaimed. "Change? Hey, c'mon! I already told you we haven't done anything!"

"Hey, hey, calm down! You aren't having your privilege level _dropped_ , Patrick. You can still leave the hospital grounds on your own but you and Justine can't be signed out at the same time, that's all."

"Have you told Justine yet?" Patrick asked after sulking for a moment.

"That's up to her treatment team. But you can be sure that her doctor and yours are in agreement on it."

"This sucks, Simon. That's all I have to say. It... _sucks_!"

"You won't believe it, but this is for your benefit."

Patrick snorted, then asked, "This doesn't mean I'm restricted to the snack bar until Justine's back from her pass, does it?"

"No, her pass is something else since she's with her family. You may go for a walk in the meantime."

"Anything else to tell me or can I leave now?"

"You're free to go."

"Free, my ass."

When Patrick put his hand on the doorknob, he thought of something, then turned to face Simon.

"Whose idea was this? Yours?"

Simon finished standing up before answering in a casual tone.

"It was a team decision, Patrick."

"That's not what I asked. C'mon, you're actually a nice guy. Can't you just tell me, man to man?"

"All you need to know is that this was a team decision."

Charley wouldn't have to worry about conditions being put on his privileges. Nor would he have to bother with group sessions or lights out at eleven o'clock. He was leaving right on schedule, the announcement made official during the Wednesday morning ward assembly.

Linda was still reading off the names of admissions and discharges along with the group schedule. Patrick wondered, if Charley was about to leave, what on earth was keeping someone like Linda here? There were no new people to be introduced so the mistress of the ward assembly got right to Patrick's roommate.

"Discharges today: one. Charley Doolan!"

Charley stood up from his chair, between Patrick and Simon, and waved to the patients and staff, a broad grin on his face.

"So, Charley," Rachel said, "where are you going when you leave here?"

Charley's face betrayed an instant of bewilderment. Didn't the head nurse know all about his discharge plan? Oh, well...

"Goin' back to live on the farm," he declared. "Take my lithium, stay out of trouble!"

"Good for you," Linda commented.

"What helped you while you've been here with us?" Gloria asked, a stock question for departing patients during assemblies.

"The lithium. It kept me from getting' too excited, like. Then the staff was okay."

Charley looked around and grinned again.

"They were real good to talk to! Anyone flips out back home, I'll recommend this place..."

"Anything else?" Simon asked.

"Hey, for real, I made a good bud here. That's my roomie, my pal, Patrick over here."

Patrick blushed a little as Charley reached over to clap his hand on Patrick's right shoulder.

"We had some good times together, right?" Charley asked. "Best roommate a guy could have!"

"Yeah, sure," Patrick said with an embarrassed, weak smile. "I'm gonna miss you, Charley."

"Sounds like a couple o' fags!"

This sour interpretation had come from a scowling, middle-aged man sitting with his back to the counter, hairy arms in short sleeves crossed over his chest. His name was Gus and he was often making nasty comments about all kinds of things. Gus was heavy and his face was well-creased below thin, gray hair. Rachel wasted no time in confronting him.

"Gus, that is a very inappropriate thing to say! I'm asking you to apologize _right now._ "

Gus slowly uncrossed his arms and planted his hands on his knees. He looked over to the young patients.

"What you guys do in private is none of my business," Gus said. "I shouldn't have said nothin' about it."

"That's no apology at all," Rachel responded as Charley sat back down with a scowl on his face.

Simon leaned forward in his seat and tensed his legs. There was a possibility that Gus might escalate and need to be restrained.

"Sorry," Gus mumbled rather than fight against the staff.

Linda looked at Rachel, hoping for a signal to move on to a new topic. Patrick sought out Justine's face; she was sitting across the way from him. His girlfriend was smirking for some unfathomable reason.

She had been angry over the staff's interference with their romance the day before. Justine bragged to Patrick about having a fight with Dr. Adams about the change in their privileges although the terms were still in force.

"What did you do with my note?" Justine had asked.

"It's in my wallet."

"What if you lose it?"

"My wallet?"

"Yeah, dummy!"

"What do you want me to do with the note, then?"

"Eat it."

" _What_?"

"Eat it, cutie. Then no one can read it and some of it would stay in your body."

"It would?"

Now, one day later, Justine had barely spoken a word to him. Then again, Patrick himself had been distracted by Charley's discharge. That slob Gus could say what he wanted but it wouldn't keep Patrick from missing his roommate. Besides, God only knew how long it would be before they shifted a new guy into the bed next to his. It could be another Wyatt.

All Justine had said about coping with the staff's precautions against their affections was that they should wait for an "opening". Patrick guessed that might come with the less vigilant counselors and nurses who worked on the evening shift. Otherwise, there was Patrick's own tentative discharge to look forward to.

Plus arranging a time and place for "doing it right" as Justine had scribbled in the note. Patrick had actually obeyed her, chewing up the scrap of paper and swallowing it. The next time he had a bowel movement, Patrick was reminded of the note.

"Well, goodbye," Charley said at the entry door; his parents were waiting in the lobby downstairs.

Simon was holding the door open while the two former roommates shook hands. Patrick felt the urge to hug Charley but doubted that Charley would like it.

"I'll call you when I get out," he promised instead.

"Hey, before you know it," Charley nodded. "Hope you don't get that freak Tony as your roommate."

"Better him than Gus."

"Well, gotta go. Stay outta trouble or... or..."

"Or get myself a cheap lawyer?"

"A cheap lawyer!" Charley shouted with appreciation. "Gimme five!"

They slapped their right hands together one more time. Then Charley was on his way, Simon escorting him into the elevator.

Patrick stood there and watched through the small window in the door to see the elevator doors closing. He sighed, then wondered why he should feel so sad to see Charley go. They'd only met a couple of weeks ago and now it was as if they'd been fraternity brothers, or something. Weird feelings in this place.

Maybe I'll ask Kearney about it, Patrick thought. Like maybe we're just bottled up in here so it pressures us into more intense relationships than you'd have in an office or a store; it was more like what soldiers in a war zone went through, like Patrick saw in some old movies.

Then something else occurred to him, making Patrick's mind reel. It didn't have anything to do with the DEA this time. He'd though of Justine. Up to now, Patrick had wanted to believe in the magic of love. The idea that you could meet the right person anywhere, anytime and you'd both know it somehow.

Whether it was in a classroom, on the subway, or anywhere else, you could meet that somebody. And why not on a psych ward? Some of Simon's words from the day before came back to him.

Patrick shuddered and walked back towards the day room.

Okay, so why not? So what if it had a warped beginning? My feelings for her are real, aren't they? They must be: I started having them after I began taking that pill, ha-ha. Lookit: I want to see Charley on the outside. I really do. Nothing wrong with that, is there? No one tried to discourage our friendship, did they? They let me be Charley's roommate. Guess I interfered with his treatment when I gave him my jar of piss. Hell, maybe they _are_ jealous of me and Justine! Maybe Simon wants to fuck Justine himself. Tall guys want tall women, after all. Fuck _her_? No, fuck _you_ , Simon! He'd probably get fired if he did it with Justine, as if she'd have him. Yeah, if Justine's forbidden fruit for me –

"Patrick?"

He turned his head in the direction of the voice. There was Frank, holding that clipboard again, just stepping out of the day room.

Speaking of fruits, Patrick thought irritably.

"What?"

"Occupational Therapy," Frank replied flatly, nodding in the direction from which Patrick had walked.

"Terrific," Patrick mumbled.

But he complied. After all, he knew that Justine was also supposed to be in that group.

And not only Justine. Anthony wheeled himself into the art room at the last minute. Erin the occupational therapy assistant was presiding over the group once again. Patrick had brazenly sat right next to Justine and put his leg up against hers under the table. Patrick was reassured when she rubbed her knee against his.

Linda was also sitting at the table, along with Albert and Cindy. Patrick made a deliberate effort not to acknowledge Cindy. He didn't want to antagonize Justine at this stage, if ever.

Erin had set out materials for watercolor painting: half a dozen thick, white 11x17 sheets of paper lying like placemats alongside the small, rectangular paint palettes. Two glass jars half-filled with water were sitting on the table, each holding more than enough paintbrushes for everyone.

"We're painting today, Anthony," Erin told the straggling patient as he pulled up to the table. "Does that sound like fun?"

"Oh, I don't know," Anthony grinned. "I'm not much of an artist."

"Don't be silly," Erin replied. "Of course you are."

She selected a brush for him and held it out, handle first.

"Why can't I do something else?"

"What?"

"I don't want to paint. Couldn't I use some clay?"

"Anthony, I can't get the clay out just for you," Erin said with a sigh. "Just forget about it."

"It's not fair," Anthony complained. "I don't see why each of us can't do whatever we want."

"You're being impractical," Erin told him.

"He's being an _idiot_ ," Justine said in an annoyed voice. "He's always fighting _everything_!"

"That's not true," Anthony protested.

"Yes, it is!" Justine snapped.

"That's enough," Erin cautioned her; Justine went back to her painting without another word.

Anthony stared up at Erin. Then he broke into a grin as she frowned back in confusion.

"You're far too beautiful to be limiting my freedom," Anthony declared.

" _What_?" Erin exclaimed.

"You should be the object of courtly love," Anthony continued. "Poetry should be dedicated to you, a fair maiden!"

"Out!" Erin shouted, dashing around the table, her red braids fluttering behind her head.

Patrick burst out laughing while Justine only scowled. The other patients started smiling. For his part, Anthony kept still until Erin took hold of the handles on the back of his wheelchair.

He struggled as best as he could, pressing his feet on the floor. But Anthony was too small and light to thwart Erin that way. She outweighed him by about twenty pounds and was no weakling. Erin dragged Anthony back from the table, turned him around, and pointed him towards the door, which she had left open.

"Out!" Erin repeated.

"I want clay!" Anthony shouted, trying to dig in his heels.

Patrick stopped laughing. Anthony's resistance to Erin's pushing was more effective than his fight against being pulled.

"That shithead," Justine growled. "Why don't they get rid of him, like Wyatt?"

Erin was shoving Anthony slowly out of the room. It was an awful, degrading sight. Patrick's chest tightened. Between Justine's angry muttering and Anthony's shrieks, he was feeling more and more anxious. This all had to stop! Why didn't a counselor come by and help Erin?

With a numb sense of purpose, Patrick got up from the table. Justine and the other patients stared at him as he walked swiftly over to the struggling pair.

"Patrick, what are you doing?" Erin asked as he roughly brushed her aside.

"Getting him out of here!"

Patrick tilted the wheelchair back, raising Anthony's feet from the floor. He rolled the chair out of the art room rapidly, carrying the sputtering Anthony out into the hallway. Patrick didn't notice Simon jogging in their direction in response to the commotion.

Shocked to see Patrick behaving this way, Simon hesitated in an effort to comprehend what was happening. Patrick stopped the wheelchair suddenly, causing Anthony to pitch forward and fall out of his seat. He landed face-down on the floor.

Simon rushed forward as Erin watched from the art room doorway.

"What the hell?" Simon gasped, looking from Anthony to Patrick to Erin.

"I – I was throwing Anthony out of group," she explained. "Then Patrick decided to... take over."

The counselor gave Patrick a hard stare. Feeling sickened by his own actions, Patrick looked down at the floor.

Other staff arrived as Simon crouched alongside Anthony. Gloria was there along with Kris and Tom the social worker. Anthony was fully conscious.

"Are you all right?" Simon asked him.

"I'm fine."

Anthony turned onto his side and smiled up at Simon. Gloria asked if he'd hit his head. Anthony said he didn't think so. Next he denied having any blurred vision.

"Let's get him up off the floor," Gloria told Simon.

Hoping to impress Erin, Simon put his hands under Anthony's armpits and easily lifted him to his feet before Gloria could lend a hand. Gloria took hold of Anthony's left elbow as Simon eased the patient back into the wheelchair.

"How did this happen?" Gloria asked.

Erin repeated what she had told Simon a moment earlier. Gloria turned to scold Patrick.

"You are _not_ to put your hands on any other patients," she said coldly.

"I... I only touched the wheelchair," Patrick stammered lamely.

"Go to your room," Gloria demanded. "Right now."

Patrick started off, walking unsteadily at first. He paused after passing the staff.

"Uh... for how long?" Patrick asked cautiously.

"Half an hour," Simon replied.

"One _full_ hour," Gloria interjected.

Patrick shuffled away, deeply ashamed of himself.

Yes, he agreed. At least an hour.

CHAPTER 14:

DISCHARGE PLANNING

"So, did I blow it?" Patrick asked Dr. Kearney that afternoon.

"Blow it, Patrick?"

They were meeting in the psychiatrist's tiny office once again. Nothing outward had changed but Patrick still felt ashamed of himself.

"What I did to Anthony, doesn't that affect my discharge?"

The doctor shook his head.

"It was an isolated incident. Regrettable, yes, but not part of a behavior pattern that concerns us. You're still on track to leave sometime next week."

"Well, that's a relief," Patrick said with a sigh. "I... I still don't know what got into me, exactly. That's not something I usually do. I never do things like that, really!"

"How d'you account for it, then?" Dr. Kearney asked. "Any ideas?"

"All I can say," Patrick muttered, "is that I was just so frustrated with Anthony. I couldn't stand the scene he was making. It had to stop. But... but maybe it wasn't just him."

"Oh?"

"Maybe it was more than him," Patrick elaborated, thinking out loud. "It might have been everything. I have to admit it's frustrating just being in here. I want out, simple as that."

"Of course."

Patrick smiled and allowed himself to laugh nervously.

"What's that for?" Dr. Kearney asked with a smile of his own.

"It had nothing to do with the DEA," Patrick announced proudly. "It... it's a normal problem, right?"

"As normal as anything gets around here," the psychiatrist agreed. "The incident itself has been addressed and dealt with. You may feel free to put it behind you."

"So, do I get a twelve-hour pass this weekend?" Patrick asked after a shy hesitation.

"We'll see. Now, you tell me that the drug authorities had nothing to do with what happened in the art room yesterday."

"That's right."

"And you don't feel like they're watching you anymore?"

"I know that now."

"Spend much time worrying about them lately?"

"Not really. I know it's nothing personal now. I doubt the DEA even has a file on me. That's better, isn't it?"

"Yes, but how does the DEA figure into things for you right now?"

"Figure into things?"

"What, if anything, do they have to do with your breakdown?"

"Oh, I've told you: maybe I'm just an insignificant little ant to them but what they've been doing was making me paranoid. Some drug users get arrested, some of us get our minds fucked with."

Patrick paused and cracked a nervous grin. He apologized for the profanity; you didn't swear like that in front of your grandfather.

The psychiatrist laughed again and told Patrick that he had served in the Marine Corps during the Big War against the Axis. Four-letter words were hardly shocking to him.

"And now that you don't feel that the federal narcotics authorities are making a special effort to persecute you, how d'you feel about leaving this hospital when the time comes?"

"I'm not worried at all anymore," Patrick said forthrightly. "I'm only worried about staying in here too long."

Dr. Kearney nodded.

"And isn't that a healthy thing to be worried about?"

"Indeed it is. As is your remorse over the incident with Anthony."

"God, that's some relief," Patrick said, exhaling. "So, you were saying last time that I'm supposed to be getting outpatient treatment as a follow-up?"

"That's right. It's being looked into right now. We don't just send you home without a support system in place."

Patrick nodded but he still wondered if what the staff called a support system would become an intrusion for him. There would be more pills, though. That was a given. Once Patrick's prescription ran out, he'd have to get more through some sort of outpatient clinic. Best to cooperate with that.

A sudden scream penetrated the office door. Dr. Kearney sprung out his chair with surprising speed for a man of his age and size.

"Stay here!"

Patrick stayed in the office but stood in the open doorway to try and see what was happening. He thought about his doctor's military experience. There he was, storming that beach again. Was it Normandy or Guadalcanal?

Justine was the one doing the screaming. As that fact dawned on Patrick, he disobeyed Dr. Kearney and walked fearfully out into the hall. He lagged behind a group of staff members following the psychiatrist: Stacey, Gloria, Frank, and Brenda.

"Look what's going on!" Justine shouted, pointing at her half-opened door. "Go in there and _do_ something about it!"

Patrick watched Frank and Dr. Kearney take the lead, pushing open the door. The nurses were right behind them while Brenda lingered outside. Patrick saw the opportunity to hurry down and meet Justine.

They spoke in the smoking room, as usual. Justine had become so flustered, she hadn't even brought a pack of cigarettes with her.

"They were fucking in there!" Justine told Patrick breathlessly.

"Who?"

"Cindy! She was doing that ugly creep Gus!"

"My God!"

They heard a muffled argument from her room; one of the staff had closed the door. Patrick and Justine stood in the threshold of the smoking room. Brenda might have tried to wave them off but she herself seemed intent on listening in through the door.

Just a moment later, Frank escorted Gus out of the room. The patient seemed calm. This was not a restraint situation. Gus actually looked pleased with himself, a first since Patrick had seen him. Gus was mumbling something about having given Cindy a good time.

Patrick felt queasy, wondering if Cindy had just been raped.

"Sure, she's capable of it," Stacey was saying as she left the bedroom alongside Gloria. "I hate to say it but Cindy probably was the aggressor."

Gloria was shaking her head. Both nurses seemed preoccupied, uninterested in Patrick and Justine.

"Well, there was that incident in her intake history," Gloria commented, her voice trailing off as she disappeared from view.

Brenda followed right behind them. Patrick realized that Dr. Kearney must have been counseling Cindy in the bedroom. He was willing to let the good doctor tend to this more pressing concern. Besides, Patrick was dying to hear more from his girlfriend once they settled onto the sofa.

"So you just walked in on them?"

"Yeah! He was right on top of her, his pants were pulled down, I could see his _ass_!"

Justine shuddered and gripped Patrick's left knee.

"Disgusting!" Justine shouted as Patrick nodded in agreement.

"Maybe they were both desperate," he suggested.

"They're both a couple of lowlife animals. Deserve each other..."

"That's a little rough."

"No it isn't!" Justine snapped irritably. "I have to share a room with that fat cow. And you..."

"What?" Patrick asked when she paused, feeling impatient himself.

"That old bastard called you a faggot in front of everyone at the assembly and now you're defending him?"

"No, he's still an asshole. But, hey, why do you have to hate people so much?"

"What d'you mean?"

"You... you get so worked up over what the other patients and the staff do around here. You... you should relax."

"Listen, jerkoff," Justine replied in a soft yet edgy voice, "you haven't put in the kind of time in these places that I have. Maybe everyone seems nice and sweet to you now but they'll screw you over if they think there's... there's something in it for them. You'll learn that sooner or later. You don't want to believe me? Then just you wait. You'll get it right up the ass when you least expect it!"

"Sorry," Patrick mumbled, meaning he was sorry that he'd tried to reason with her.

"And I don't need you to criticize me," Justine added. "I need you for something else."

She leaned over and kissed him. Patrick had braced himself for a hard kiss like the one she'd planted on him in front of those witnesses in the day room. This time, however, she kissed him lightly, almost daintily.

Opening his eyes, Patrick saw that hers were brimming with tears. He felt a sudden chill as one tear rolled down her cheekbone.

"Hey... I'm really sorry..."

"It'll be all right," Justine sniffed, putting her head on his shoulder.

"I was going to tell you, Dr. Kearney is giving me a pass this weekend. Or he's thinking about it, at least. I suppose I'll be out of here next week."

"Good for you. I had a pass two weekends ago, remember? And one yesterday, too. That son of a bitch Adams won't schedule _me_ for discharge!"

"Don't cry."

"I'm not crying," Justine told him as she wiped her cheek.

"I have an idea," Patrick whispered. "If I get out of here, you can do more than come visit me for... you-know-what."

"What do you mean?" Justine whispered back.

"You don't like living with your parents, do you?" Patrick asked, his pulse starting to throb desperately. "Who says you have to? Y-you're not a minor, after all. You could move in with _me_."

Justine stared at him.

"You... you shouldn't make promises like that."

"Why not? I mean it."

"What about your brother? What if he doesn't want me there?"

"I can handle Scott."

"What about the staff?"

"What about them?"

"You think they'd discharge me to your apartment? No way!"

Patrick laughed nervously.

"You aren't getting it," he whispered rapidly, fearing that somebody would intrude on them before he could finish. "You slip away from here and come to me."

"Escape... into your arms?" Justine grinned. "Yeah..."

"You like the idea?"

She nodded.

"You know what the staff calls it when you skip out while using your privileges?" Patrick asked.

"I think I –"

"They call it... elopement."

CHAPTER 15:

PASSING THE TEST

Patrick used his pass on Saturday. Scott came by to pick him up in his Chevette just after ten o'clock. Patrick had decided to wait for him on the street corner rather than have his brother come up to the third floor and ring the doorbell.

It was a nice day out, sunny and warm. The brothers spoke little at first, riding through the late-morning traffic with the windows down. It was a short trip to their two-bedroom apartment. Off-street parking was included in the rent; Scott and Andrew went inside their building from the rear door by the parking lot.

"Are you glad you went to the hospital?" Scott asked once they were inside their living room.

"Yeah, sure. Seriously."

"That's good."

Scott stood awkwardly over by the dining table they'd set up behind a sofa facing a big television screen. It was Scott's own home but he didn't seem to know whether to sit or stand. Patrick casually leaned against the back of the sofa.

"There's nothing to be afraid of," he said.

"I'm not afraid," Scott reacted, grinning stupidly. "I... I guess I don't even know which questions to ask."

"I'm your brother. Ask something you'd ask your own brother."

"You know it's not that easy," Scott said with a sigh as he turned towards the kitchen. "Want anything to drink?"

"That's a good start," Patrick told him with what he hoped was an encouraging smile.

"So?"

"Got any beer?"

"You want beer?"

"Not really. We've always got orange juice, right?"

"Sure."

A minute later, they were sitting at the table, each with a glass of juice. The radio was playing; Scott had left it on when he'd gone to pick Patrick up.

"So, uh, you're feeling better now?"

"Of course I am."

"What's changed for you?"

Patrick smiled. It was a good question and maybe a sign that Scott was starting to relax around him.

"I'm not afraid anymore," Patrick answered. "That is, I'm not afraid over nothing. By nothing, I mean my own... well... delusions."

"You admit that they were delusions?"

"Yes."

"You did say something about the DEA trying to scare you into quitting the weed. Do you still believe that?"

"Not as a personal effort, no."

"Personal effort?"

"A personal effort against _me_. It's like a more general attack on all drug users, don't you see?"

"I suppose you could make that argument."

"A week ago, I might have thought driving some of us insane was part of their master plan. Now, I don't think that's very likely."

"Glad to hear you say that."

Patrick laughed softly and nodded his head.

"Yeah, it was probably accidental. Law of unintended consequences, that's all."

Scott looked worried about something.

"Now what?"

"Um, Patrick, have you considered another possibility?"

"Possibility of what?"

"Well, I mean about how it all started. What if there hadn't been any drug war? What if you'd never used drugs?"

"Are you trying to say that weed caused me to lose my mind?" Patrick asked with a skeptical sneer. "Come on!"

"That's not what I was getting at. Listen. Maybe your... your condition had nothing to do with drugs at all. You know: the cart before the horse."

"I still don't get it."

"Well, couldn't it be that your breakdown was, like, genetic? It was going to happen anyway. Since it happened to a pothead like you, you got all... fixated on cops and narcs. If you'd been raised to be a religious fanatic, you'd blame it all on the devil instead, say. See what I mean now?"

"I guess so," Patrick murmured, wondering if his brother had been reading up on the subject.

"You're going to hate me for saying this..."

Patrick glared over at Scott, bracing himself for an insensitive comment.

"...but maybe Mom's dying had something to do with it."

But Patrick wasn't offended. He was skeptical but not angry; relieved more than anything.

"Okay, for the sake of argument, let's say you're right about me. Genetics made me susceptible to having what they call a psychotic break. That's what Dr. Kearney called it; I take 'anti-psychotic' medication, too. Yeah, the doc mentioned genetics, come to think of it. So you and I have similar DNA, right? We lost our mother. So how come I'm the one who's mentally ill? Why aren't you... crazy as well?"

The bitter tone left Scott intimidated. Patrick calling himself crazy was a kind of defiance. But Scott couldn't pull back now.

"We aren't identical twins, Patrick. Not even fraternal twins. Maybe there's enough difference in our DNA that we didn't both..."

"Lose it?"

"Whatever. Or maybe we were both equally predisposed to having the same reaction."

"Predisposed? You _have_ been reading psych textbooks lately, haven't you?"

Scott blushed.

"Uh, a couple of medical journals in the library," he confessed. "Anyway, say we did have the same chance of developing your condition. A fifty-fifty chance, a roll of the dice. Came up odds for me, evens for you. Just luck."

"Don't you have that backwards? _I_ got the odd number."

It was food for thought, all right, as Patrick had to admit. It wasn't until after he had enjoyed some good, solid food with Scott that he finally brought up Justine. But he couldn't discuss her over lunch; they had gone out to a restaurant near a shopping mall. This place had a sports theme: several TV screens displayed games and Massachusetts team logos decorated the walls, both professional and college.

Patrick was less interested in the constant ball games on the screens than he was in some deliciously unhealthy fried food. He'd had a craving for a highly-stacked burger with an abundance of French fries. Scott ordered a club sandwich and both had glasses of draft beer to wash it all down.

Not having had any alcohol since his admission, Patrick was feeling pleasantly buzzed after just one tall glass. Then he ordered another one.

"I've got a girlfriend now," Patrick said as soon as they were back inside the Chevette.

Scott stared at him. Of course, there was only one place where his brother could have met somebody.

"Yes, she's a patient," Patrick told him. "Her name's Justine."

"How long has this been going on?"

"Hard to say exactly. It sort of developed after my first weekend there. Justine came back from a pass and told me she'd split up with her boyfriend."

"So you replaced the guy?"

"Yeah, I guess so. She's in love with me, Scott."

"You sure?" Scott asked as he backed out of the parking space.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I... I'm not trying to question Justine's... stability. I know there's a variety of reasons people are admitted to that kind of hospital. Especially on a voluntary ward."

"Thanks for saying that. Justine's not psychotic. She's got emotional problems, of course and she's very angry about a lot of things. But she says that I calm her down."

"That's good. What I was getting at, though, is that you haven't known her that long, right?"

Patrick knew precisely what Scott meant. It was the same thing he'd considered after saying goodbye to Charley. But hearing his brother suggest as much made him feel obstinate.

"Haven't you heard of love at first sight?"

"Sure. But it's like Santa Claus: I hear of something but I don't necessarily believe in it."

"Okay, well, maybe it wasn't at first sight. But love comes fast sometimes. And maybe it does have something to do with being cooped up together in that place but does that mean it isn't real?"

"You tell me."

"It's real."

They rode on in silence for a few minutes.

"Tell me about her," Scott said in a more accommodating tone.

"She _is_ pretty young," Patrick said with a self-conscious smirk. "Nineteen years old."

"Not jailbait, at least," Scott remarked teasingly.

Patrick laughed.

"She's very tall and thin, got long brown hair. She's not built like Arlene."

"So what?"

"Right."

"Sounds good-looking, though. Um, how do you have a girlfriend in the hospital, though?"

"You mean with the staff watching us?"

"Yeah."

"Well, we're not supposed to be touching each other. Patients aren't supposed to touch each other in general, that is. We've tried to hold hands and kiss when no one's watching. But the staff caught on sooner than I figured. We got away with necking on a field trip and we used to make out when we could ride the elevator by ourselves. But then the staff put a stop to that."

"How?"

"By changing our privileges. Now I can't leave the floor on my own if Justine's already signed out and vice-versa."

"They can do that?"

"Of course they can. That form I signed when I was admitted says so. Part of the conditions they set for us. That's just the way it is."

"But you haven't done anything like... you know. Have you?"

"No, we haven't fucked. Not yet. We're planning on saving that for when we're actually out of the hospital. Or after at least one of us is."

"Like a celebration?"

"More like enjoying ourselves because we won't have to worry about what our doctors might have to say about it."

"I see."

"There's something else I need to tell you about that."

"Oh?"

"Justine lives with her parents so we can't do it at her place."

Scott laughed nervously, shaking his head.

"Yeah, I get it," he said. "Fair enough. I can spend some time with Arlene at her place when, uh, the time comes."

"Thanks," Patrick said, smiling happily.

"After all, what are brothers for?"

Still, Patrick was hardly convinced that Scott approved of Justine. Not based on any first-hand impressions, of course. Her status as a patient was enough. Worse than that, Patrick had to admit that Justine's personality would likely rub Scott the wrong way.

How was he ever going to convince his brother to let Justine move in with them?

When Patrick returned to the hospital, there was no need to find someone to provide him with any substitute urine. Scott hadn't even had any dope to share had Patrick requested it. A little alcohol in the urine wouldn't matter.

Not only that, Frank was working the second shift this weekend; the veteran counselor knew enough to stand outside the toilet chamber door while Patrick filled the specimen jar. Patrick wondered how Charley was doing back at the sheep farm. He'd thought about dialing him up from home but that would've been a toll call and God knew it would've been hard to get Charley off the phone.

Best wait 'til there's better news, Patrick reasoned. Like after I'm home to stay. Yeah, after I get laid.

"Here you go," Patrick told Frank an instant later.

"Thank you, Patrick."

Patrick nodded and smiled, then thought of something to ask Frank.

"How's Anthony doing?"

"How's he doing?" Frank echoed with a slight frown. "Oh, he's doing well. Why do you ask?"

"Why not?" Patrick said with a shrug. "I like him. Uh, not everyone around here does."

"Well, I'm sure Anthony would appreciate you're taking an interest in his well-being," Frank said pleasantly.

"You know I apologized for that stupid thing I did to him."

"He appreciated that as well," Frank responded.

"Is it true that Anthony is suing the clinic he used to go to?"

"Where did you hear that?"

"From Anthony," Patrick said, walking over to his dresser to put away some clothes he'd brought back from the apartment. "I was just wondering if that's something real or if he was being delusional."

"I can't tell you that."

"Why not? If it is true, Anthony obviously wanted me to know about it."

"I simply cannot divulge personal information about one patient to another," Frank insisted, his nasal tone becoming more pronounced. "You wouldn't want me going around telling other patients about your issues, now would you?"

"I... I wouldn't mind if I'd already told someone myself."

"We have rules, Patrick. Rules that each of us – myself included – must follow."

Patrick closed his eyes in frustration and nodded. Frank left the room.

Pain in the ass, Patrick thought. Rules and more rules! At least I won't have to put up with them much longer. Lights out when I say so. Dates with Justine whenever we want them.

Maybe I could sue the Justice Department for damages, he thought idly as he walked down towards the smoking room. Even if Scott's right about my warped brain, I could always make a harassing case against them, all the way up to the Attorney General. What's his name? Meese? I should ask Anthony who his lawyer is.

Justine didn't happen to be in the smoking room this time. Mildly surprised and disappointed, Patrick did say hello to Linda and Albert. He took his seat in a folding chair.

"Have a good pass?" Linda asked.

"Yeah, it was good to see my brother and apartment again."

"Nice to know things are still out there where you left them," Linda said with a smile. "Right there, waiting for you."

"Yeah," Patrick agreed, looking out at the night sky.

He was tempted to ask if either of them had seen Justine but felt too self-conscious for that. Maybe she'd already gone to bed. Damn it, he would've waited up for her...

"Bum a smoke off you?" Patrick asked Linda.

"You like menthols?"

"I... I don't know," Patrick replied with a shrug. "Maybe I'll try one and see."

"Don't know if I like encouraging such bad habits in you," Linda said, shaking her head.

"He's a big boy," Albert spoke up. "Knows what he's doing."

"Thanks," Patrick said, watching the corpulent patient fish a cigarette from his own pack.

He stood up and accepted Albert's cigarette and a light from his butane flame. Patrick was getting better at tolerating the smoke in his lungs since Justine had given him one recently. It was another thing that Scott wouldn't like.

Bad influences in this place? Patrick wondered. Or is it because we have nothing to do?

CHAPTER 16:

COMMITMENT ISSUES

Patrick was frustrated by Justine's behavior. She seemed to be avoiding him since he'd returned from his pass. Her absence from the smoking room didn't seem like a fluke after a while. Justine declined to join Patrick for the Sunday van ride and he was sullen for the whole trip.

To make matters worse, Justine kept using her privileges to the leave the floor, effectively stranding Patrick on the ward. Off the floor or in her room, Patrick couldn't talk to Justine and ask what was bothering her. When he did see her in the pubic areas, there were always other people around. Patrick wanted a private conversation. Even a note passed between them would have been a relief.

Patrick was almost desperate enough to ask someone on the staff what was up with his girlfriend. But if Frank hadn't been willing to confirm what Anthony had already told him about the lawsuit, Patrick knew that he could hardly expect cooperation from any nurse or counselor on this matter.

They're probably glad to see it turn sour, he thought.

"She's probably depressed," Linda said when Patrick complained to her about it on Monday afternoon. "I know what that's like, kiddo. I once spent a whole week in bed, didn't want to talk to _anybody_."

"But she hasn't been staying in bed," Patrick argued. "She's been up and around. Only not around me..."

"Just be patient. Want me to talk to her?"

"I don't know," Patrick mumbled. "Let me think about it."

He lit a cigarette while considering Linda's offer.

Because it was in the staff office, Patrick couldn't see it but his name was written on the calendar above the coffee maker. His discharge date was in the box for Friday, July 3rd. No one had told Patrick yet but Dr. Kearney had written the release order three days ahead of time.

Simon was pleased to see which names were up on the calendar. Albert would be leaving that very evening and Linda had finally been scheduled for July 2nd.

"We'll have some real turnover coming this week," he remarked, raising his coffee cup.

"No more Wyatts, I hope," Kris said.

They were sitting at the table together, each writing progress notes. Stacey was transcribing medication orders from Dr. Adams into the red binder used at the nurse's station.

"This whole ward's been off kilter since Wyatt came through here," Kris went on. "Anthony's acting up every day; then those two getting laid right down the hall; Justine Edwards seducing your boy Patrick. Hell, even Patrick knocking Anthony around that one time..."

"That's just the point, though," Simon commented. "It's Justine more than Wyatt. After all, she's Cindy's roommate. And Patrick told me they haven't done it yet so – "

"You believe that?" Stacey asked with a smirk.

Simon was embarrassed by her question. It hadn't occurred to him that Patrick could have lied to him.

"As I was about to say," Simon said, rather than reply to Stacey, "it's probably because she's got his hormones in an uproar that he pushed Anthony out of his wheelchair."

"Doesn't mean they _didn't_ get it on," Stacey told him. "Maybe you're right about Patrick being sexually frustrated but with a lot of guys, you give it to 'em once and they want it again even more."

Anthony's lawsuit was, as Patrick had supposed, no delusion at all. His parents had retained a lawyer within days of their son's admission to the surgical unit at Boston City Hospital. The Gingarella family was not rich but they found an advocate whose ambulance-chasing instincts were engaged by their story. His fee would be a cut of the either a jury's award or an out-of-court settlement and the lawyer was confident of a profitable outcome in either event.

Anthony's parents met with him while their son was still in a coma. The lawyer was adequately briefed on Anthony's mental condition and, assuming the suicide attempt hadn't damaged him into a different affliction, the attorney would be prepared to approach his new client.

Sure enough, Donald Nevin, Esq., was able to effectively frame his approach as a defense of civil rights, human rights, and a step towards freedom for the victim himself. Money could buy freedom if there was enough of it.

"They documented everything all too well, Anthony," his advocate had said. "Very detailed notes."

Anthony had simply nodded. Details didn't matter to him. Besides, he wasn't sure whether Mr. Nevin was a friend or not. Professionals of any category had a habit of seeking to control his life. They usually promised liberation first, just like this lawyer, and then sought to enslave him.

Frank wasn't like that, at least. No hidden agendas. Maybe Frank liked to exercise control over Anthony but he was certainly dependable, always checking in as soon as shift report was over.

Monday afternoon, the reliable Mr. Devenau came into the room and examined Anthony's catheter. Later, he took his patient outside for a walk. That is, he pushed Anthony's wheelchair up the sidewalk in the warm twilight air.

"If I win this lawsuit," Anthony said, "I'll buy an electric wheelchair."

"That's good, Anthony. But by the time your trial is over, your physical therapy should be all done. You'll be able to walk on your own by then."

"But Mr. Nevin said they might offer a settlement any day now and there'd be no trial."

"Then it might be a good idea to buy an electric wheelchair when that money comes in. Just don't get ahead of yourself, Anthony."

"I want an electric one so nobody has to push it for me. Freedom! Autonomy!"

"It would be quite an expense for something so temporary. What would you do with it once you can walk all the time on your own?"

"Donate it to someone who needs it more than I do," Anthony declared brightly. "I know how to do the right thing!"

"Of course you do."

"Not everyone does."

"That's certainly true, Anthony."

"I'm sure you'd do what's right if policy let you."

"Policy isn't wrong," Frank replied crisply. "Consistency is important. It helps you get better. Maybe you'll see that someday."

Anthony laughed because this was what he had expected the counselor to say. Consistency, indeed!

That night, Justine stood in her doorway, dressed in a robe. As Patrick watched, she opened the robe to flash him. Justine seemed more womanly, more voluptuous, than she had felt through her clothes. Then again, Patrick was only dreaming.

He woke up in a bad mood thanks to that. It was early, too early to be up and around on the ward. The hallway lights weren't turned on until seven o'clock. Once, Patrick had tried to get a cup of orange juice around 6:45 only to find a little old lady from housekeeping mopping the floor.

"You go back to bed," she'd told him in a thick Portuguese accent.

Patrick didn't know what time it was but the sun hadn't come up yet. He crossed his ankles and stared at the ceiling, lit dimly by a street lamp on the corner.

Patrick had a new roommate as of Monday morning. His name was Peter, a nervous young man a few years older than Patrick. He had bright eyes and a bad complexion. Like Charley, Peter was talkative. But although he didn't chatter as much as his old roommate, Patrick found the new guy more irritating.

Maybe he was losing patience in general after nearly three weeks in the hospital. Besides, Charley had been childishly optimistic while Peter was a whiner who seemed reluctant to drop any topic. His main gripe the night before had been about how his sister was pressing charges after he'd punched her in the mouth.

"My own sister!" Peter had moaned. "My own sister!"

Serves you right, asshole, Patrick had thought, not caring to voice his feelings because he didn't want to waste energy in a fight.

This one won't shut up, Patrick complained to himself as he watched the first trace of sunlight. And Justine won't even say anything to me. What the hell is her problem, anyway? They moved Cindy out of her room and that creep Gus is out of here altogether. So what's wrong now? What did _I_ do? Simply have to ask her, that's all. Fuck witnesses! Even if that Brenda's in the room, so what? Justine's not getting off the ward without telling me what I did wrong and that's all there is to it!

By now, Patrick had joined the cluster of patients who would each smoke one last cigarette before the ward assembly. Since Justine was still indifferent to breakfast, Patrick found her when he went for his smoke after eating.

By now, Justine was beginning to think they might never let her go home. The last time she had met with Dr. Adams, Justine had once again threatened to sign her three-day notice to withdraw her voluntary status. This time, her psychiatrist had told her bluntly that he would in fact petition to commit her. That meant a transfer upstairs or even a move to the nearest state hospital.

All Justine could think about when it came to Patrick was that he was certainly going to leave before she did. First the staff had limited what little physical pleasure Justine could scrape together in this hell-hole. Then they'd surely be sending Patrick on his way and he'd forget about her. That, and putting Cindy into the next bed as another means of intimidation.

The staff had probably put Gus up to screwing Cindy right in front of her for good measure, Justine reckoned. Why else hadn't they been removed right away? There couldn't be any other reason. Then they got around to sending Gus home since he'd served his purpose. Send that degenerate home but not Justine Edwards.

They must've realized that I'd strangle Cindy if they didn't move her to another bed, Justine had thought the day that had finally happened.

Everyone better stay out of my way, she was thinking on Tuesday morning. Doesn't matter who it is. I'll even kick Adams in the nuts! He wants to commit me, I'll give him a real reason...

"Justine!"

She had been staring out the window when she heard that. Justine turned around swiftly and angrily. There was Patrick, his face showing resentment. She didn't quite recognize him at first, he was so unlike his normally passive self.

"What?" Justine asked, confused.

"Why have you been avoiding me?" Patrick sputtered.

They were standing in the middle of the smoking room, facing each other. Some of the other patients, still seated, looked on in discomfort.

"Leave me alone," Justine said bitterly.

Patrick felt enraged when she turned her back on him. But he almost gave in and walked away, just like he used to.

In that brief time, Kris stopped in the doorway to warn the patients that it was high time they got on their way to the assembly. She reminded them that use of their privileges were at stake.

"You kids better sort this out later," Linda advised as she stood up.

Patrick ignored her. He was only interested in Justine. Patrick struggled to control his anger because it looked like she needed help now. That's all there was to it.

But first, there was something that needed to be asked.

"Is there anything I've done to upset you?"

"You and everyone else in the world," Justine muttered, still looking away from him.

"Hey, you two," Kris said, stepping into the smoking room. "This is you last call."

Startled, Patrick turned to face the counselor.

"No, wait," he said. "Can't you see she's upset?"

"That's none of _your_ concern," Kris responded. "You've been told that more than once. And as for you, missy, you can go to the assembly or spend the time in your bedroom."

"Fuck off," Justine said.

"Okay, that's it!" Kris snapped. "Go to your room, right now!"

Justine stalked out of the smoking room but in the hallway she turned right instead of left.

"Hey!" Kris called after her.

Patrick dashed out into the hall before Kris could. He was able to catch up with Justine before she reached the sign-in desk. Patrick grabbed her left forearm.

"Patrick, don't!" Kris shouted from behind him.

"Let _go_!" Justine shrieked, pulling free.

"Can't I talk to you?" Patrick whined. "Please? You said I could always get you to calm down!"

"Stay away from me!" Justine shouted, wheeling around to face him.

"I thought we had something here!" Patrick cried desperately, reaching out towards her again. "You and me!"

Justine shoved against Patrick's chest with both hands, her slight weight still enough to make him stagger backwards. He stumbled into Kris, whose solid figure held him up.

"Don't you understand?" Justine gasped. "I never loved you!"

She raked her right-hand fingernails down the left side of his face, leaving a bloody trail that went all the way down to his jaw line. He was too shocked to feel any pain. Then Justine kicked him in the stomach. This time, Patrick felt it. He crumpled to his knees and was only dimly aware of Justine running towards the main entry door.

Kris bent over and looked at him briefly with questioning eyes. Patrick couldn't find the breath to say anything but since his injuries weren't serious, Kris hurried on after Justine.

Patrick crawled over to lean against the wall. He could see what happened next from that position. His mind was numb and he watched it all with a curious sense of detachment.

Justine was pulling at the door in a futile attempt to open it. Kris yelled out for staff assistance. Her colleagues were down in the day room but Justine's scuffle with Patrick had already raised enough of a din to attract their attention.

Simon was rushing down the hall like a locomotive, trailed by more staff. Frank, Gloria, Stacey, and Rachel were fanned out behind him. Kris already had her arms around Justine's waist and had dragged her away from the door.

Justine lashed out with all of her limbs as the counselors and nurses tried to get ahold of her wrists and ankles. She slapped Frank across the bridge of his nose with the same fingers she'd used on Patrick. Blood smeared on his forehead.

Within seconds, Justine had been brought face down to the floor. Simon and Kris each held a leg while Frank and Stacey had Justine's arms pinned behind her back. Gloria went to the staff office to put a call in to Dr. Adams's beeper. Rachel took a quick look at Patrick after Kris mentioned that he'd been assaulted.

"She only scratched me," Patrick murmured mechanically. "I'll be all right."

"Want to go to your room?"

"Not yet."

Rachel was crouching next to him. She looked over her shoulder to find out what Patrick would be able to see from his position. It was certainly inappropriate to let him watch but Rachel decided to let that go for now. As long as Patrick stayed where he was, they'd be moving this horror show away from him.

Rachel went back to the scene of the restraint.

"Seclusion room?" Kris asked, looking up.

"Four-point restraints," Rachel answered. "Take her down to her room. I'll get the bag."

The staff picked Justine up and began to carry her down the hall. Moving as a group, they stepped slowly while Justine's pelvis twisted and writhed in their midst. After they passed Patrick, he dizzily stood up and looked the other way. Rachel dashed past him, carrying a pillow case with something lumpy inside of it.

Patrick felt cold as he strolled back towards his bedroom. He averted his eyes from the open day room door where patients were murmuring and milling about. The story of what Justine had done to him was one he wanted to repeat as seldom as possible.

CHAPTER 17:

MAKING ADJUSTMENTS

The bed was stripped of its sheets and Justine was placed on the vinyl-coated mattress. Held down on her back, she swore and continued to struggle as Kris joined Rachel in tying the brown leather straps to the metal bed frame. Simon held Justine's legs down, grasping her ankles and leaning over to put the bulk of his weight on them. Despite her adrenalin, she couldn't kick herself loose from that much pressure.

Justine's wrists and ankles were pulled into the soft leather cuffs. Each person performing that task had to fasten the cuffs to their tightest notches, Justine's bones being so slender.

"This isn't even my bed!" Justine shouted. "You fucking assholes! I'll sue you all!"

"Go for it," Kris sneered.

Rachel caught Kris's eye, gave the counselor a hard stare and shook her head. Kris sighed but otherwise kept quiet.

"Who wants the first watch?" Rachel asked.

"I... I think I should go dismiss the ward assembly," Simon replied, his way of saying "not me".

"I'll take it from here," Frank volunteered.

Simon gratefully went to the smoking room to find Frank a chair. As with seclusion room incarcerations, state law mandated that any patient in restraint straps be under constant staff observation.

Frank settled into the seat and serenely ignored Justine's outraged cries. One of the nurses would be bringing him a clipboard with the form he'd have to sign and initial as proof that he'd been watching over her.

I wonder how many of those things I've filled out? Frank wondered with his eyes closed. Hundreds since '75? Most of them never knew we were doing them a favor. What does it feel like to lose control that way? Spinning off like that, identity disintegrating... Nothing but fear and anger left. They lash out, scream at people, break things. Once in a while, you get one who thanks you. One who understands that restraints helped to bring them back under control. A physical imposition of re-integration, that's what it really is. A patient isn't literally falling apart but a sort of objective intervention really helps. Looks brutal sometimes, especially these leather straps. But it would only be brutality if there was no need to hold the consciousness together, if it was used as punishment alone. Sure, it's done against the patient's will, at least against the expressed will of the patient, against what seems to be their conscious opinion.

Then again...

Frank smiled.

He was remembering one particular young patient who'd been on the ward two years earlier. She had actually enjoyed being put into restraints and sometime went out of her way to receive that kind of attention. Like Justine here, that one had been diagnosed with borderline personality disorder, which spelled manipulative. Such patients were often despised by the staff, although Frank knew better than to single out a particular diagnosis for contempt. But he didn't suppose that Justine was like her predecessor. Maybe Miss Edwards needed bondage and discipline in a manner of speaking but she wasn't asking for it, of course. Not like that other girl had. Oh, well. Whatever does it for you.

Rachel tended the scratches on Patrick's face herself, dabbing the red streaks with a cotton ball dipped in disinfectant. He was sitting in the chair otherwise used for taking vital signs. Patrick winced at her touch but was grateful for the care.

"We'll be shipping her upstairs as soon as possible," Rachel was saying.

"Good," Patrick replied bitterly.

"The house doctor is on his way to examine Justine. We'll have him look you over while he's up here."

"That... isn't necessary."

"It's a regulation and it won't hurt."

"Not like the way this hurt?"

"No."

"Are you done?"

"Yes."

"You can tell the doctor I'll be in my room."

A few minutes later, Simon caught up with the head nurse in the staff office. She was busily preparing to implement the transfer order Dr. Adams had approved as a telephone order. Justine had already been sedated with an intramuscular injection of Thorazine and had lapsed into a fitful sleep.

"How's Patrick doing?" Simon asked, walking up to the table.

Rachel looked up from a three-ring binder and tried not to smile. She was amused and almost charmed by Simon's concern for "his" patient. Something to be encouraged, the head nurse thought, not laughed at. There ought to be more caring hearts in this business, after all.

"He's angry," Rachel said. "And hurt, too, I expect."

Simon nodded.

"I wonder if I should look in on him. Think he'd mind?"

"I don't know," Rachel said. "You could try. Patrick might tell you he wants to be left alone."

"I guess," Simon murmured, peering over at the calendar. "You didn't tell him about his discharge date, did you?"

"No."

"I wonder if anyone would mind if I broke the news to him," Simon asked, trying not to sound too eager. "He could use some good news right now."

"Better ask Gloria," Rachel replied, nodding past him.

He turned around and saw the team leader entering the office. From her smile, it was clear that she had heard his indirect request.

"You know Dr. Kearney usually likes to handle that part," she said.

Simon nodded.

"And he might still change his mind at team meeting today," Gloria added.

"I guess so."

"So when you tell Patrick, make sure it's clear to him that the date isn't carved in stone, okay?"

Patrick was happy that Peter wasn't in their room. If his self-pitying, obnoxious roommate walked in, Patrick decided he'd tell him to get lost.

No more Mr. Nice Guy, he thought as he sat there on his mattress.

Then Patrick heard a knock on the door. It couldn't be Peter knocking first, could it?

"What?" Patrick asked sourly, raising his voice.

"It's Simon. May I come in?"

"Okay," Patrick said unenthusiastically, realizing there would be more Mr. Nice Guy after all.

"How are you doing?" Simon asked as he walked into the room.

"How do you _think_ I'm doing?" Patrick answered with a scowl.

"That's enough of an answer," Simon acknowledged, shutting the door.

"Good."

Patrick smirked at the counselor's awkward demeanor.

"You know what I thought about you the first time I ever saw you?"

"What's that?"

"I thought you were probably some kind of enforcer. A tough guy they'd sent in to intimidate me."

"Is that so?" Simon responded, seemingly confused over the point Patrick was trying to make.

"Yeah, that's so. What's so funny about that now is what a wimp you've turned out to be."

Simon smiled sadly and leaned on the chest of drawers.

"What makes you say that?"

"Sorry. It's my bad mood. I guess I'm not supposed to talk about you, anyway."

Simon shrugged as Patrick clasped his hands together.

"So," the patient said, "now you've come in here to say 'I told you so'?"

"No, I wouldn't ever do that."

"Thanks."

"We're going to move Justine upstairs."

"So I heard. Guess that's one way to keep us apart."

Patrick didn't mean it but he couldn't resist making an angry, bitter joke about what he'd been through with that girl.

"Well," Simon said, "here's something you haven't been told yet. Dr. Kearney's scheduled you for discharge this Friday."

Patrick blinked and gaped.

"Y-you wouldn't bullshit me, would you?"

"No way," Simon assured him. "Sorry this happened first."

"I'm not."

"You're not?"

"If Justine had to attack me, I'm glad it didn't happen in my apartment."

"Your apartment?"

"Sure. Now that I'm leaving and Justine's out of here, too, I guess I can make my confession."

"Confession?"

"Yeah," Patrick said, looking up at the ceiling. "You see, Justine and I, we had this plan to get together on the outside. Once either of us got discharged, or maybe after both of us did, I don't even remember exactly. Anyway, we were going to do it in my bed. I'm saying we were really going to do it!"

"Okay."

Patrick looked at Simon, surprised by the calm reaction.

"We were going to _fuck_!"

"So what? That wouldn't have been any of my business by then."

"But don't you disapprove?"

"Why should you care if I approve or not?" Simon asked, standing up straight. "Obviously, I didn't think she was any good for you but I wouldn't have lost any sleep over it, either. That's even assuming there was any way I could've found out what you two had been up to."

"I... I thought you'd get mad when you heard me say it."

"I'm not getting mad over something that didn't happen," Simon told him blandly. "Especially not over something that wasn't likely to ever happen in the first place."

Patrick felt as if he'd been struck again. I lighter slap, perhaps, but about as sharp as Justine's nails in a figurative sense.

"Wh-what do you mean?"

"Something tells me that Justine wasn't going to have anything to do with you outside the hospital."

"C'mon..."

"I think she really liked you at first. But it wasn't the kind of thing you could've keep going outside of this place."

"Is... is that why you tried to warn me? Tried to keep us apart?"

Simon looked at the floor.

"Not exactly," he muttered. "Well, hey, I'm not supposed to be telling you as much as I already have."

"So what?" Patrick said anxiously. "I'll be gone at the end of the week, anyway."

"Probably. I should've mentioned the date isn't absolutely certain."

"Hell, I know that. I... I guess what I'm trying to tell you is that I really appreciate you talking straight to me. Really, it means a lot. Especially now."

Simon waited for more than half a minute before responding. Patrick supposed that he'd embarrassed the counselor but still didn't regret having spoken his true feelings. If only Simon would reciprocate just a little more.

"When you leave here, I hope you never come back."

"Me, too."

"And not just because I'm being more candid than usual," Simon elaborated. "A lot of the patients in here at any given time are faces that I've seen before, some of them I've seen several times. I read their medical histories and see that they've been in a lot of places, lots of times. We call them revolving-door admissions."

Patrick felt cold. He was barely able to maintain eye contact with Simon.

"Could that happen to me?"

"Best thing you can do is cooperate with your outpatient therapy and keep taking your medication. The way that stuff works is, you don't stop taking it because you feel okay. You keep taking it so you can still feel okay."

"Dr. Kearney already told me that."

"Well, it's true."

"It sounds kind of like you're saying all this to scare me into good... into proper behavior. Like that time you scared me into signing the voluntary form."

"Just scaring you with the truth, that's all."

"And... and Justine told me not to listen to the staff, to listen to _her_ instead. She said _she_ knew what was going on."

"If she really did know what was going on, she wouldn't..."

Simon let his voice trail off, refraining from finishing his comment.

Patrick didn't bother to push Simon on that. After all, it was clear what he'd meant, anyway. Too bad they couldn't really be friends. They _couldn't_ be, right?

"You... you didn't really think I'd cooperate when you told me not to fool around with Justine, right?"

"Okay, listen. This is the last time I'll say more than I'm supposed to but, yes, I knew that damn well enough. It had more to with making sure you understood that we knew – the staff knew – what was going on between you and Justine. If I say anything more, it'll start sounding like 'I told you so' and I already promised not to do that to you."

"Well, uh, I guess that was my own mistake to make."

"That's right. Kind of a normal problem, wasn't it?"

Patrick blinked slowly and started to grin. So Simon really understood. It was all right. Patrick felt like he was emerging from a tunnel that had seemed like a terrifying reality when it hadn't been real, after all. Instead, it was...

"A tunnel of paranoia," Patrick muttered out loud.

"Sounds like an unpleasant ride," Simon remarked after a moment, a tentative smile on his lips.

Patrick wished he could have blamed it all on his mother. Not that she actually deserved the blame. Maybe excuse would be a better way to put it. Had she died before Patrick reached puberty, say, then his lack of sexual experience, let alone sexual satisfaction, could be attributed to some Freudian disruption of his maternal connection. Wasn't that supposed to be the basis for all his future relationships with women?

But Patrick had loved his mother, even though he felt inadequate as a son. Scott had been the successful one. Patrick had been the child who had needed more attention and support. And he had always received it, resenting the need for it all along.

It was a good thing that she hadn't lived to see him descend to this state, staring out the window of a psychiatric ward at the twilight shadows on the quiet street beyond.

I wouldn't mind if my father found out, Patrick decided. Look what you did to me!

However, Patrick wasn't in a blaming mood the following morning. He had another session with Dr. Kearney right after ward assembly. Patrick didn't bring up the subject of his parents; he had in fact never initiated a discussion of grief or abandonment. When his psychiatrist had done so, Patrick had insisted that his acceptance of orphanhood was complete. Dr. Kearney had refrained from badgering him and otherwise said nothing to indicate disbelief.

"What do you want most to have happen to you after you leave here?" Dr. Kearney asked several minutes into the session.

"Find a girlfriend," Patrick replied without hesitation. "I mean a real one."

The doctor nodded his head slowly and folded his hands over the open chart in his lap.

"I don't really blame Justine," Patrick added quickly. "Not anymore. I want to live a normal life. Normal life, normal girlfriend."

"I see."

"You think my... my illness is under control, enough to let that happen?"

"Based on what you've told me, I'd have to say it's a reasonable possibility. You used to include women among your enemies as part of your paranoia. With that paranoid ideation now in remission, you have the opportunity to make what you call normal relationships of many varieties."

Many varieties? Patrick echoed mentally behind a frown. I only care about one variety!

"Are you trying to say I shouldn't get my hopes up about finding a girlfriend?"

"I'm saying you shouldn't push yourself too hard looking for that kind of relationship. I wouldn't want you to feel frustrated when things don't happen as fast as you might like."

Patrick grunted.

"You have to rebuild your relationship to the world as a whole first," Dr. Kearney continued. "Or perhaps build it for the first time as an adult. What I'm referring to is the very definition of what it means to be well-adjusted. Do you understand?"

"I guess I do."

"Good," Dr. Kearney smiled.

"So, do I still get to go home on Friday?"

"Yes."

"Would it be all right if I get a pass today... for this evening? I'd like to go to my place, make a few arrangements ahead of time."

"Of course, Patrick," Dr. Kearney replied, picking up his pen. "I'll write the order for a pass right now."

"Thank you," Patrick said softly, trying to conceal his nervous enthusiasm, based on something more than mere gratitude.

CHAPTER 18:

GOOD BEHAVIOR

Dr. Kearney had written an all-day pass for Patrick. According to the order, Patrick was supposed to return to the hospital by lights out at eleven o'clock. It was technically a twelve-hour pass but the psychiatrist told Patrick he could leave before eleven a.m. if he wanted to.

Patrick bided his time by having a cigarette in the smoking room. He thought about how he'd gone from watching Justine smoke to doing it all by himself. While Patrick didn't miss Justine, he was feeling left behind in the wake of all these discharges and transfers, starting with Charley's. Albert was gone and Linda would be leaving the next morning. Patrick sure didn't feel like a virgin anymore. If anything, he felt superfluous.

He smiled as he tapped off ashes into the sand-filled bucket on the floor. Scott disliked the new nicotine habit probably at least as much as he feared Patrick's romance with Justine. Well, at least there would be good news to share on that second point. Patrick hadn't told his brother the story yet, choosing to save it for a face-to-face conversation. That had been easy enough to postpone; Scott hadn't even bothered to ask about Justine when Patrick called him to say his release was to be on Friday.

The pass was another thing Scott hadn't been told about.

"Could we trade beds?" Peter asked when Patrick made it back to their room.

"Why?" Patrick asked almost as if he really cared.

"I want to be able to look out the window."

"Can't you do it from your own bed?" Patrick asked, starting to pack his better clothes in a paper bag.

"Yeah, but I can't see over the hedge when I'm lying down," Peter replied, getting up from his bed and stepping towards the window.

Patrick shut the dresser drawer and stared at his roommate,

"And how d'you know I can see over that hedge when I'm lying down?" Patrick demanded. "Have _you_ been lying on _my_ bed?"

"No, no," Peter said, waving his hands anxiously. "It... it just makes sense! You know, perspective..."

Patrick grinned, unable to keep up his tough-guy act. _Perspective_! It was a funny word coming from that wimpy dork.

"Okay, who cares, anyway?" Patrick said, putting his bag on the dresser.

"You mean I can – "

"Yeah, yeah! Just shut up about it. How 'bout you change the sheets on both beds for us? Deal?"

"Deal!" Peter beamed, hurrying out of the room.

"Well, that got rid of him," Patrick mumbled to himself.

He decided against using the toilet and nervously made his way out and down towards the day room, bag under his arm. The first thing he had to do was find whichever counselor was carrying the clipboard and locker keys.

That turned out to be Brenda. Patrick found her in the day room. She obliged Patrick's request to open his locker without much comment. Patrick simply pocketed his apartment keys and asked Brenda to let him off the ward.

"You'll have to check in with the person you're assigned to," Brenda told him.

Patrick sighed impatiently. That was typical Brenda: by the book. He walked up to the bulletin board across from the sign-in desk. This was Simon's day off and Patrick had neglected to check and see which counselor would be writing the progress notes on him for this shift.

"Kris," he read aloud.

She was a tough one, all right. But there was no turning back now. He wondered where Kris was. After swallowing a bit of saliva, Patrick took the diagonal path the staff office door. It was open and, sure enough, there was Kris sitting at the table.

"Ready to use your pass?" Kris asked brightly.

"Yeah," Patrick said, chuckling nervously.

Kris got up from the table and led Patrick to sign out.

"What's in the bag?"

"J-just some clothes," Patrick replied as he wrote down his name and time he was leaving on the sheet.

"Clothes?" Kris reacted skeptically as he looked at her. "But aren't you going to be moving everything out on Friday?"

"Well, I..."

He struggled to come up with an explanation, not having anticipated a need for one. But then Kris wasn't staring at him in an accusatory fashion. Her expression was, if anything, knowing and possibly sympathetic.

"Okay, you got me," Patrick finally said. "I... I've got some weed in this bag. It's for my brother."

"As long as you're taking it out of here," Kris responded dryly, "there's no problem."

Patrick laughed more to relieve stress than in amusement. With a loud click, Kris unlocked the entry door.

"Have a good pass," she said, standing aside.

"Thank you," Patrick said with a nod.

I'll make the most of it, he thought after the elevator doors closed.

Patrick couldn't help looking up at the windows of the secure ward. Was Justine still up there? Would it be a good thing or a bad thing if she happened to squint through the lattice screen over her window and see him leaving?

I'd rather she saw me like this, marching freely down the sidewalk, Patrick decided. It's her last chance to see me!

Realizing that the commuter rail station was within walking distance, Patrick figured he could ride one of the trains out to Waltham. He had taken that line to and from North Station in downtown Boston many times before; it was a soothing mode of travel.

The outbound train rumbled into Porter Square Station right on schedule. Patrick boarded a car, paid the conductor for a ticket to Waltham, and settled down into one of the high-backed seats. He looked out the window as the train began to move forward, very slowly at first as if it were drifting on the tracks. Then the diesel engine in the locomotive kicked in and sped up Patrick's ride home.

It would not be a long trip but it still gave Patrick time to think. His decision did not waver. In fact, he felt ever more confident as the train rumbled along.

I'll never go back there, Patrick thought. Never. _Ever_.

The walk from the train stop had left Patrick tired and he collapsed into his bed minutes after getting inside his apartment. The familiar ceiling cracks signified a refuge. He drifted off and slumbered until Scott came home a little before six.

The older brother's moving about in the kitchen woke Patrick up. He had fallen asleep in his clothes so he got right up and took several unsteady steps down the hall.

"What are you doing home?" Scott asked, shutting the refrigerator door; he looked mildly startled.

"They let me go early," Patrick explained. "You know I was scheduled to be discharged on Friday. I just asked if I could go home a bit sooner. Kind of time off for good behavior. My doctor didn't mind so here I am."

"Well, uh, great," Scott said, smiling.

"Anything good to eat in there?" Patrick asked, pointing at the refrigerator.

"Didn't you check that out when you got in?"

"I went right to bed."

"Oh. Well, have a look. I think there's some leftover lasagna in there."

Patrick opened the refrigerator.

"You know, you should've called me. I would've picked you up."

"No need to take time off from work," Patrick responded. "This was kind of sudden, anyway."

He removed a plastic container full of lasagna and a 16-ounce bottle of Pepsi.

"Looks great," Patrick said. "What are you going to have?"

"Oh, Arlene and I are going out to dinner. Would you like to join us?"

"No, thanks. Three's a crowd."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. I just want to get settled back in here tonight."

Patrick slid the container into the microwave.

"Don't worry," he added. "Justine won't be coming over here."

"She won't?"

Scott's relief was obvious.

"We kind of broke up. Badly."

"I'm sorry."

"No, you're not. But that's okay."

"If you say so... Hey, what happened to your face?"

"Still shows, huh?"

" _Yeah,_ " Scott said impatiently. "Tell me what happened!"

"I told you we had a bad break-up," Patrick answered tersely. "Could we just drop it, please?"

With a sigh, Scott went to look through the mail lying on the kitchen table. Patrick thought things over. He had no pills; a proper discharge would have sent him home with a month's supply and a renewal prescription. The chemicals had probably built up enough in his system to keep him safe for a little while, though. And Dr. Kearney had said there would be a prescription available for him at the outpatient clinic's pharmacy.

Patrick wondered if somebody from the hospital would call in the morning. Well, so be it. With a little luck, Scott wouldn't answer the phone first. Patrick could always tell the truth: he hadn't wanted to go through a ridiculous goodbye ceremony at the Friday ward assembly. If they'd be so kind as to call and notify the clinic, he'd go right over for his pill bottle and maybe meet his new therapist while he was at it...

The microwave beeped.

Maybe Patrick would tell Scott everything if some phone call from the hospital didn't spoil it first. Then he chuckled softly as he dumped the lasagna onto a plate.

Patrick could imagine the headline: ESCAPED LUNATIC AT LARGE.

He sat in the courtroom, wrists and ankles in chains, despite his harmless and placid nature. The chains weren't painful but they were heavy. Patrick stared up at the bench, hoping he was right about the judge: he looked like Robert Kearney. To his right were the prosecutors, ice-cold blond men in blue suits. Government lawyers.

Patrick looked to his left. Here was his court-appointed attorney, who looked like Simon Herbst. This lawyer was so busy leafing through law books that Patrick hesitated to ask him anything. The lawyer was behaving like a student cramming up to the instant before the final exam is handed out.

The judge gaveled the court to order. The government attorneys started presenting their case in unison. Patrick didn't pay much attention to the content of their remarks, choosing instead to scan his eyes over the courtroom. The jury box was empty; that meant that this was probably an indictment hearing. Unless the jury system itself had been done away with.

There was a portrait of President Reagan up on the wall. Lately, he had grown a beard like the Ayatollah Khomeini's. Patrick understood that was bad news for secular democracy in America.

Then Patrick heard the prosecutors make a stereo allegation that Patrick had sold Justine Edwards some tainted LSD which had caused her mental illness. Outraged, Patrick prodded his lawyer to make an objection. The Simon like attorney grinned stupidly and said something about not wanting to make waves.

Patrick called him a coward and shook his chains in irritation. The judge slammed down his gavel and told Patrick to be quiet or he'd be removed to a holding cell. Patrick sneered up at the treacherous Judge Kearney and asked to be granted that as a favor.

In the blink of an eye, Patrick found himself behind bars. He was in the cell all by himself. If no one could save him from the government's outrageous lies, at least he didn't have to hear them uttered in person.

Suddenly, his mother appeared at the cell door. Patrick wasn't surprised to see her, just ashamed. Although Mrs. Coyne had never been harshly judgmental with Patrick in life, her ghost was plainly disappointed in him.

Before she said a word, Patrick protested his innocence. His mother couldn't possibly believe those smears, those lies about him, could she?

Mrs. Coyne said that wasn't what was bothering her. She had raised him better than to end up in jail, under any circumstances. Maybe the charges were trumped up but it was his own fault for smoking grass in the first place. Patrick should have lived a clean life. Nothing would have stuck had he behaved himself.

Patrick sputtered out his ineffectual self-defense. He started badly by reminding his mother that she herself had smoked marijuana when she'd been his age. Mrs. Coyne scoffed at her son's argument. Dope had been legal in her day, she said. Patrick scratched his head. Was that true? How much had things changed in one brief generation?

Patrick got angry at her. If he hadn't been ready to take care of himself, as she claimed, then why had she left before her with him had been done? This was as much her fault as it was his.

Mrs. Coyne turned her back on him and walked off down the corridor. Patrick called after her and rattled the bars. If his mother was right, what was the point of him being alive?

"And I wanted to join her," Patrick said quietly, staring up through a skylight at gray clouds and falling snowflakes.

The psychologist raised his eyebrows.

"Do you feel that way now?"

"Right this minute, no," Patrick answered, meeting the older man's probing gaze. "But sometimes..."

"Sometimes what?"

"Uh, sometimes death has a certain appeal."

"Have you contemplated suicide?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

" _Of course I'm sure_!" Patrick snapped. "I knew this guy in the hospital. He was getting outpatient therapy like this and they kept telling him he was suicidal. He said he wasn't, they said he was. He finally threw himself in front of a bus because he couldn't stand hearing them say it over and over again!"

The psychologist frowned.

"Are you saying you could see yourself doing something along those lines?"

"What I am getting at is this patient, he sued the clinic for malpractice. So watch what you say to me about being suicidal."

"Patrick..."

"I am _not_ suicidal," Patrick insisted. "I just get damned tired of being stuck where I am. You don't grow, you die. Everyone knows that. At least I'm not getting worse."

"But Patrick, you weren't talking about these dreams until recently. They sound rather disturbing to you. Am I right?"

"Yeah, so?"

"The content of your dreams sounds a lot like your paranoia from last year."

"But they're just _dreams._ I don't think this room is bugged, or anything."

"They could possibly be an early manifestation of a relapse," the psychologist suggested, "appearing in your subconscious mind first, like canaries in a coal mine. How long has this been going on?"

"Since February," Patrick replied, deeply annoyed. "I told you about them from the beginning. Did you think I was holding back on you?"

"I'm glad you weren't," the psychologist said with a thin smile. "However, we may need to look into adjusting your medication."

"Oh, no, no, no!"

"Patrick..."

"Listen. I've been taking that shit like I'm supposed to. I mean it'd be one thing if I wasn't cooperating. Then I'd be – what d'you call it? – decompensating. More like decomposing."

"Another death reference."

"I know that!"

"Well, we won't go back into it right now."

"Thank you."

"I know you've been cooperating with treatment," the psychologist went on in a calm voice. "I believe you. If there's something wrong with the situation, it's nothing you've done. It's not your fault."

"Damn right!"

"But I think we should consider a medication consult with one of the psychiatrists, Perhaps some better course of treatment ought to be explored."

Patrick crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at the wall-to-wall carpeting. Institutional carpeting, wasn't it?

"Can't we give it some more time?" Patrick asked, his defiance fading. "I... I know what a medication change could mean for me. See if I stop having these dreams on my own. Please."

"You _would_ tell me if the dreams persist, wouldn't you?"

Patrick nodded.

"Ignoring the problem of the medication won't make it go away."

Patrick shook his head.

"If it gets any worse, we'll arrange a consult right away," the psychologist said. "If you don't stop having these kinds of dreams spontaneously, we'll look at getting you a consult in a month, okay?"

"Okay..."

Maybe I'll take up prayer, Patrick thought sarcastically.

CHAPTER 19:

IT WOULD HAVE BEEN PERFECT

Simon Herbst was feeling wonderful that Thursday morning. It was a warm April day for one thing, and he was happy about going in to work. The hospital had been looking better these past couple of weeks, almost as if it had been painted and otherwise refurbished. But no, it was the same little cracker box of a building it had been the first time he'd seen it a little more than three years before.

Exactly sixteen calendar days left, Simon thought as he pushed open the glass door to the lobby. And twelve work days. Be counting the hours in another week.

He would have a nice dinner with Lisa to celebrate. No champagne, of course. Having quit drinking before New Year's Day, Simon had shed thirty pounds of beer bloating. It was hard to imagine a better positive reinforcement than that.

About six months earlier, Simon had been feeling impatient and depressed. Then good fortune had come in three strokes, like fairy tale wishes. First, he'd found a sweet, voluptuous young girlfriend from among the band of nursing school students doing their psychiatric rotations; next, he'd made the decision to abstain from alcohol and kept to it; finally, he'd submitted his letter of resignation to the director of nursing.

Simon rode up to the third floor in the service elevator, as usual. He then entered through the fire door down by the washing machine and dryer. The strong sunlight was pouring through the smoking room window. It was about ten minutes before seven and no one was up to smoke a cigarette yet.

No sleepless manics? Simon wondered with a smile.

He walked briskly to the staff office. Rachel was already sitting at the table, a mug of coffee alongside the order book in front of her. No one else was in the office at the moment.

"Well, good morning," Simon told her. "This is the first time you've gotten to work before me in quite a while."

"You're a short-timer now," Rachel replied. "Must be getting lax."

"I guess so," the counselor said, approaching the coffee machine. "When I was a security guard, I was supposed to report to my post fifteen minutes before the shift so that I could debrief the guard I was relieving. Working here, I figured that it would be best to continue that policy for myself. I don't like coming in late and missing something important in the shift report."

"Speaking of which," Rachel said as Simon filled his own mug, "I have something to tell you. Have a seat."

"Uh-oh," Simon replied, grimacing. "What did I do?"

"It's nothing like that," Rachel assured him. "It's more about what you will be doing."

Rachel hesitated a moment before saying: "Simon, you're good at remembering patients' names. Remember that young guy, about your age, from last summer?"

"Which one?" Simon asked, his stomach already guessing the answer.

"The one who thought he was being persecuted by the Drug Enforcement Agency."

Patrick woke up in a familiar place that morning. Right away he realized he wasn't in his own bed. Patrick scowled up at the ceiling.

His admission last evening hadn't been another one of those bad dreams, after all. Here he was, in a home away from home. Not quite starting all over again, at least. This time, Patrick had walked in lucid and signed the conditional voluntary without hesitation. He was no virgin.

"Least I got the place to myself," Patrick muttered.

He sat up and kicked off the sheet. It was important that he get dressed before some counselor came into the room. Patrick pulled up his jeans, he a drink of tap water from a Styrofoam cup and found his cigarettes.

Minutes later, he was down in the smoking room, lighting the first cigarette of the day. There were a couple of other patients who had already settled in for a smoke. Patrick knew them only from being introduced the night before.

Actually, only the staff had been familiar to Patrick so far. No Charley, no Linda, no Albert, no Anthony. Not even Justine. On the other hand, Patrick felt sure that everyone on the ward had seen the inside of a psychiatric hospital before. He crossed his legs and waited for the inevitable staff contact. That is, contact with one staff member in particular.

"Sorry to see me?" Patrick asked as soon as Simon appeared in the doorway.

"Yeah, as a matter of fact, I am."

Patrick's eyebrows twitched upward in response.

"That sounded like an honest answer," Patrick said, laughing.

"Why not? I have nothing to lose."

"You've... uh, changed," Patrick observed as Simon sat down in a plastic chair across from him.

"Yeah, I suppose so. Contact lenses, this beard, my weight loss. I wondered if you might have trouble recognizing me."

"No way," Patrick told him. "Besides, I asked yesterday if you still work here."

"I'm flattered."

"Don't be. I... I wasn't sure I wanted you to see me again. When they said yes, you still work here, I was a little disappointed."

"I read your admission intake," Simon said. "Simple medication adjustment, nothing you did wrong. I'm just sorry it was necessary."

"Was it?"

"That's not up to us to decide, is it?"

"Yeah, too bad."

"Well, you won't be in here for long," Simon asserted. "You should get privileges soon, too. You'll be out of here before I am."

Patrick stared and flicked some ashes from his cigarette.

"What d'you mean by that?"

"I'll tell you later," Simon replied, looking at his wristwatch. "Breakfast trays will be up any time now. You know the routine."

Patrick guessed what Simon was hinting at but was unable to find out for sure until after a long wait through breakfast, the ward assembly, and a session with his doctor. During all that, Patrick looked around and still saw no familiar faces among the patients and just a couple new ones among the staff members. Yet many of the patients did seem familiar as types, people that reminded him of other people. Patrick wondered if he resembled anyone they had met in another hospital someplace.

He was supposed to see Dr. Kearney shortly after the assembly. The kindly old man would explain the new pills, their benefits and potential side effects. All very ethical, of course.

They'd better work this time, Patrick thought. It wasn't worth it to come back here.

"It was that stupid-ass psychologist," he complained to Dr. Kearney later on. "If it wasn't for him, I could've done this as an outpatient. I think I need a new psychologist after I get out."

"What about your suicidal ideation?" Dr. Kearney asked, glancing down at the three-ring binder in his lap.

"I was only talking about death in general," Patrick insisted heatedly. "That suicide idea, that's a crock of shit! That was just that idiot's misinterpretation of what I was telling him. A little honesty and where does it get me? It was almost like this dream I had?"

"Dream, Patrick?"

"Oh, I had this dream about being put on trial for a trumped-up drug charge. Now I'm in here for a trumped-up depression diagnosis."

"But you signed in voluntarily, even though you think it's an injustice."

"What was I supposed to do, let them commit me to a state hospital? I was lucky you guys were willing to take me back!"

Patrick repeated that statement to Simon a couple of hours later in Patrick's room. He was able to express himself more calmly this time.

"No problem," Simon told him, sitting down on the bare mattress opposite Patrick's bed.

"Did it make you mad that I, uh, eloped last time?"

"Hell, no. I liked your sense of initiative. Believe me, no one here got their feelings hurt over it. Sometimes, certain patients have escaped and I've breathed a sigh of relief. But we don't re-admit those kinds of patients so readily."

Patrick blushed as a notion came to him.

"People find me likeable, don't they, Simon?"

"Sure."

"Including you."

"Yes, maybe even especially me."

"I... I like the way you seem to be so honest with me," Patrick said, uncomfortable with what he still felt compelled to say. "I should've listened to you about Justine."

Simon waved the suggestion away.

"Don't be silly! You never were going to listen to me over her. I know how it is when you're lonely and a woman gives you attention. There's no need for you to feel guilty about it now."

"I promise I'll listen to you this time."

"Unless I tell you something you don't want to hear."

"No, I mean it! I really trust you."

"You're embarrassing me," Simon protested. "Anyway, I will promise to do whatever I can to see that you get out of here before I do."

"You said that before," Patrick reminded him. "What, are you quitting this place?"

"That's right, I am. Two weeks from tomorrow will be my last day."

"Wow! What are you doing, going back to school? You'd make a good psychologist, Simon. Better than that fuckhead I've been seeing."

"I'm not going to school," Simon replied, stretching his arms. "I just need a change of pace, that's all."

"Like what?"

"The entertainment business."

"Entertainment?"

Simon laughed softly.

"I'll be working at a video store, this place in the South End called The Video Vault."

Patrick was puzzled. The big counselor seemed to have the compassion that was needed in psychiatric care. What a waste for him to be checking out video cassettes! The selfish prick... Patrick had once thought Simon was within forty years of becoming another Dr. Kearney.

"Looking for something less stressful?"

"That's part of it."

"H'mm. Well, I hope you like it working there. I guess I really don't want to come back here a third time if you won't be around."

"Don't let _that_ be your reason!" Simon told him with a grin. "Do it for yourself. Fight for your own health..."

"Well, okay, I promise. Next time my clinic tries to have me admitted to a hospital, I'll sue 'em like Anthony did. Hey, do you know how that turned out?"

"I'm fuzzy on the details," Simon replied, "but the story I heard is that the clinic settled out of court for some large amount."

"How large?"

Simon shrugged.

"Six figures," he said. "Maybe even seven."

Patrick burst out laughing, swatting his mattress with both hands.

"Somebody get me a cheap lawyer!"

Damn, I wish I'd remembered to say that when they introduced me at that stupid assembly today, Patrick thought. Son of a bitch! It would've been perfect!

