What a fool I was.

Either way, saying something about Reid could be dangerous. So I keep my head down and my mouth shut and follow the bare, gray hallways straight to my therapist’s office. My shoes squeak on the linoleum, and it makes me all too aware of myself. I have a right to be in the hall, but barely. Therapy and bathroom passes are the only acceptable reasons to be on our own during the day.

I pass another guard stationed outside the classroom area, where I would be if I didn’t have therapy. He’s staring at his phone. It must be exciting, because he barely looks up. Raised voices drift out from the inside.

One of the twins from my wing slips past him with a pencil and a bunch of empty paper. She winks and gives me a thumbs-up as she heads toward the bathroom.

I smile in return.

But when I knock on Jemma’s door a few minutes later, the smile has faded, and tension has settled in my neck and shoulders. We didn’t see each other last week—Jemma was home for Thanksgiving—and I’m still getting used to the idea of trusting her with my feelings. At least Confession has the theoretical option of anonymity.

Jemma doesn’t look up from the report she’s reading, and her long, auburn hair falls in strands across her face. She absently gestures for me to come inside. “Emerson, good to see you.”

“Hi.” I perch on the chair in front of her desk, legs folded underneath me. Jemma’s office is as basic as can be. No endless bookcases or a couch to lie on, which is kind of what I’d expected when I heard we all had to go to therapy. But there are no visible cameras. The chairs are comfortable, even though they smell of fake leather. And one of the walls has a pretty cool mural of an ocean at sunrise. It makes the room feel cozy. Almost.

“We’re here to talk about—” Jemma sets the report aside, and I brace myself. She sucks the air in through her teeth. “What happened?”

I shrug and lie. “I fell.”

She narrows her brown eyes. “Sure. What happened?” She pushes her glasses higher up her nose and leans closer to me. “You can tell me, Emerson. Fights are not tolerated here, especially not hazing or gang activity.” She says those last words like she stepped on a bug and felt it squish beneath her feet. “Everything you say in this room is confidential.”

She looks at me expectantly.

Briefly, the opportunity is there.

Jemma is one of the reasons Hope is classified as a residential treatment center. We aren’t just stuck here—we’re provided with counseling and therapy. We have a communal garden where we can grow our own food, because it may teach us something about life, and there’s the opportunity for other forms of work experience. Mrs. Vance, our teacher, worked in special education for nearly three decades before she came here.