The yard at the South Florida Evaluation and Treatment Center is a rectangular stretch of lawn surrounded on all four sides. The L-shape of the main building encloses the perimeter to the east and south, the north and western borders walled off by a twenty-foot stark white concrete barrier topped with coils of barbed wire.

There are no doors in the yard. To exit the grass-covered atrium, one must ascend three flights of cement steps which lead to an open walkway running the length of the southern side of the facility. This mezzanine accesses the third-floor gymnasium, group-therapy rooms, an arts and crafts center, computer room, and a movie area.

Dominique takes cover beneath the aluminum roof extending out from the third-floor walkway as the lead gray clouds roll in from the east. Two dozen residents evacuate the yard as the first drops of afternoon rain splatter against the overhang.

A solitary figure remains behind.

Mick Gabriel continues walking along the perimeter of the yard, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He feels the humid air turn cool as the clouds open up overhead. Within seconds he is immersed in the downpour, his white uniform soaked, clinging to his wiry, muscular frame.

He continues walking, his soaked canvas tennis shoes sinking in the soft grass, the rainwater squishing between his toes and socks. With each step, he recites the name of another year of the Mayan calendar, a mental exercise that he uses to keep his mind sharp. Three Ix, four Cauac, five Kan, six Muluc …

The dark eyes focus on the concrete wall, seeking its flaws, his mind searching for options.

Dominique watches him through a veil of rain, feeling remorse. You blew it. He trusted you. Now he thinks you betrayed him.

Foletta approaches. He exchanges waves with several abnormally exuberant residents, then joins her.

“Is he still refusing to speak with you?”

Dominique nods. “It’s been almost two weeks. Every day, the same routine. He eats breakfast, then meets with me and stares at the floor for a full hour. Once he gets to the yard, he paces back and forth until dinner. He never mingles with other residents and never says a word. He just paces.”

“You’d think he’d be grateful; after all, you are the one responsible for his newfound freedom.”

“This isn’t freedom.”

“No, but it’s a big step up from eleven years in solitary.”

“I think he really believed I could have gotten him out.”

Foletta’s expression gives him away.

“What, Doctor? Was he right? Could I have—”

“Whoa, slow down, Intern. Mick Gabriel’s not going anywhere, at least not right now. As you’ve seen for yourself, he’s still quite unstable, posing a danger not only to himself but to others. Keep working with him, encourage him to participate in his own therapy. Anything can happen.”

“You are still planning to assign a rehab team.”