Normally, Warden Davis sits behind his desk to lecture us. He’ll stare at me with his cold, blue eyes until I’m uncomfortable, and he’ll tap his fancy pen against the wooden desktop. Tap-tap-tap. Today, he is in the midst of packing files into a briefcase, and he doesn’t so much as look at me. One of the filing cabinets along the wall is open, and several folders are sticking out.

I stare at his short-cropped, gray hair and try not to fidget.

“Miss Richardson, we’ve had this conversation too many times now. You are here at Hope because you were given a second chance in life, in spite of your flagrant disregard of both law and your fellow student’s personhood. You are here because Arkansas and Better Futures believed we could rehabilitate you and turn you into a productive member of society. But this has always required work from your side, and I’m afraid to say I do not see the progress we hoped for. Despite our help and continuous efforts, you let your emotions get the better of you on an all-too-regular basis. Sometimes, I wonder if you want to make life worse for yourself.”

His words are like ice through my veins. My throat is so dry, I wouldn’t know how to speak if I wanted to. Worse? Worse how?

Solitary is only meant to be for a couple of hours, according to the guidelines—a day or two at most. But Hope has other ways to punish us. We’ve all heard the stories of teens being taken from here to be sent back to a closed facility. Sometimes for a couple of weeks or so, as a time-out, to scare them. Sometimes they don’t come back at all.

The mere thought of it makes me want to vomit. I hate it here, but everywhere else is hell. And I didn’t do anything. I only told the guards to stop misgendering the new kid. I only struggled when they cuffed me. I can be good. I know I keep messing up, but—

“Of course, Better Futures was built on the belief that even delinquent teens deserve understanding and care. We would never simply wash our hands of you. But everything that happens from this point on will be on your own head. These are the consequences of your own actions.”

His words eerily mirror Rock’s outburst. Warden Davis looks up from sorting the documents, expecting some kind of acknowledgment—even if I don’t know exactly what I’m acknowledging.

I swallow hard and manage a barely audible, “Yes, sir.”

He softens a bit at that. “You’re a good girl, Grace. I truly wish we could’ve done better by you.”

I don’t know how to respond to that. I don’t know what he’s saying. And it isn’t until the broad hand of Scissors rests on my shoulder that I realize this is it. I’ve been dismissed.

The guard steers me toward the door and gives me a gentle nudge. “Go on, clean yourself up.”